monday, august fourteenth, two-thousandcrap
(THIS POST HAS BEEN MODIFIED DUE TO LEGAL BULLSHIT)
These things keep going through my head. I keep thinking about what I have to get done. I am stuck in a frightening and cyclical perspective. It's a fuckin' trap. I want to pick up the clothes that are laying in a heap on the floor in my closet, package them up, and drop them in the green beacon of hope that is the Gaia Movement box standing proudly across the street from my English Basement Apartment in Wicker Park. Outside of my (self-dubbed) uncanny empathic abilities in immediate conversations, I am not really much of a humanitarian on a day-to-day basis. My anxiety does not stem from the idea that people might go without clothing on their back if I do not reach out to them soon. I am, quite frankly, more interested in creating the perfect environment for myself at all times. It's a sickness, really. I am obsessed with this idea of utility-chic. Clean lines with rough under-bellies. I like the wood in the floor of my closet as I feel as though its coloring, mixed with my shoe collection and the green window pane, sort of collaborate to create a very Scandinavian feel. Not in the Norwegian, super-mod, heated bamboo floors kind of way, but more along the lines of an old Finnish cottage-cum-music studio or an Icelandic fish skin cobbler's humble shanty.
I think I just want my life to be filled with cleanliness and order… and if it can't be, then I want the most beautiful messes around. The mess du jour, as it were.
I really just want these fucking ugly old clothes out of my life. Would someone please come and pick them up for me?
Thanks.
Oh... and bring me a bagel with lox and capers when you come.
It is 4:06. I am sitting at my desk, in my cubicle, on the 18th floor of the building on the corner of Mies Van Der Rohe Way and Chicago Avenue that houses the bane of my existence. My job at the *******************.
Hello, my name is Gregory Ramos. I am the ************** for the Council on Access, Prevention and Interprofessional Relations at the *********************.
Interprofessional? That's not even a word, people. They just made it up! They took two words and just decided that they were one. They get to do that, large corporations and organizations. They get to play with the English language to make themselves look "cool" to their clients and affiliates. Such mavericks! Pure BRILLIANCE! Maybe tomorrow I will talk about the office venacular... laughable.
I am waiting for someone to bring me some green tea, as all they have stocked in our kitchen is Lipton Original. Who the fuck do you people think I am?
JESUS.
I should really be ********************************************. This shit should have been done eons ago. Why should I have to ***********************? I didn't make this mess. I would never let it get this bad…
…unless it was this bad to begin with.
Where is my goddamned tea? It was supposed to be here an hour ago. These sons of bitches, I swear to god…
At my old job, things were very "fancy". We had a very nice kitchen (that did not double as the copy room, thank you very much) with beautiful plates, and stainless steel appliances, exposed brick and beams. We received fresh fruit once a week, there were always flowers, and more often than not, fresh breads, crackers, camembert, and an open bottle of Chateauneuf Du Pape. My boss would take me ON EMOTIONAL JOURNEYS THROUGH THE GALAXY. I LEARNED A GREAT DEAL FROM THIS CHAMPION OF JUSTICE. I was the token mixed-breed fag with a sharp tongue, a penchant for fine cheeses and making people feel glamorous (and young) and was also someone to keep his boosted out, ex-swinger interior designer in check. (His name was Gregor. He was not from Transylvania.) My second week on the job, my Boss asked me if I would rather suck his INFORMATION-SOAKED BRAIN and LOVE-SOAKED HEART, or the BRAIN/HEART of one of his cohorts. I, of course, chose his associate just to spite him. He loved it. He loved me. I was fabulous. It was a fuckin' dream. Too bad I totally took it for granted. Too bad he had no idea how to NOT BE A GENIOUS.
...and now here I sit... In boringland... Incessantly staring at the tacky fabric cruelly lining the interior of my cubicle. It has a swirl pattern on it. The same swirl that adorned sectional couches in suburban rec rooms circa 1994. It makes me want to die. It makes me want to travel back in time and slice the calf of the creator of said fabric, with a shiv of an old rough-necked 40. I want to see the blood. Only then, will I feel solace.
It's 4:49 now, and after some serious shirking of the work, a couple of dodges of my supervisor, a couple of bathroom trips, and a trip to the water cooler, the end is nigh.
We're gonna make it after all.
These things keep going through my head. I keep thinking about what I have to get done. I am stuck in a frightening and cyclical perspective. It's a fuckin' trap. I want to pick up the clothes that are laying in a heap on the floor in my closet, package them up, and drop them in the green beacon of hope that is the Gaia Movement box standing proudly across the street from my English Basement Apartment in Wicker Park. Outside of my (self-dubbed) uncanny empathic abilities in immediate conversations, I am not really much of a humanitarian on a day-to-day basis. My anxiety does not stem from the idea that people might go without clothing on their back if I do not reach out to them soon. I am, quite frankly, more interested in creating the perfect environment for myself at all times. It's a sickness, really. I am obsessed with this idea of utility-chic. Clean lines with rough under-bellies. I like the wood in the floor of my closet as I feel as though its coloring, mixed with my shoe collection and the green window pane, sort of collaborate to create a very Scandinavian feel. Not in the Norwegian, super-mod, heated bamboo floors kind of way, but more along the lines of an old Finnish cottage-cum-music studio or an Icelandic fish skin cobbler's humble shanty.
I think I just want my life to be filled with cleanliness and order… and if it can't be, then I want the most beautiful messes around. The mess du jour, as it were.
I really just want these fucking ugly old clothes out of my life. Would someone please come and pick them up for me?
Thanks.
Oh... and bring me a bagel with lox and capers when you come.
It is 4:06. I am sitting at my desk, in my cubicle, on the 18th floor of the building on the corner of Mies Van Der Rohe Way and Chicago Avenue that houses the bane of my existence. My job at the *******************.
Hello, my name is Gregory Ramos. I am the ************** for the Council on Access, Prevention and Interprofessional Relations at the *********************.
Interprofessional? That's not even a word, people. They just made it up! They took two words and just decided that they were one. They get to do that, large corporations and organizations. They get to play with the English language to make themselves look "cool" to their clients and affiliates. Such mavericks! Pure BRILLIANCE! Maybe tomorrow I will talk about the office venacular... laughable.
I am waiting for someone to bring me some green tea, as all they have stocked in our kitchen is Lipton Original. Who the fuck do you people think I am?
JESUS.
I should really be ********************************************. This shit should have been done eons ago. Why should I have to ***********************? I didn't make this mess. I would never let it get this bad…
…unless it was this bad to begin with.
Where is my goddamned tea? It was supposed to be here an hour ago. These sons of bitches, I swear to god…
At my old job, things were very "fancy". We had a very nice kitchen (that did not double as the copy room, thank you very much) with beautiful plates, and stainless steel appliances, exposed brick and beams. We received fresh fruit once a week, there were always flowers, and more often than not, fresh breads, crackers, camembert, and an open bottle of Chateauneuf Du Pape. My boss would take me ON EMOTIONAL JOURNEYS THROUGH THE GALAXY. I LEARNED A GREAT DEAL FROM THIS CHAMPION OF JUSTICE. I was the token mixed-breed fag with a sharp tongue, a penchant for fine cheeses and making people feel glamorous (and young) and was also someone to keep his boosted out, ex-swinger interior designer in check. (His name was Gregor. He was not from Transylvania.) My second week on the job, my Boss asked me if I would rather suck his INFORMATION-SOAKED BRAIN and LOVE-SOAKED HEART, or the BRAIN/HEART of one of his cohorts. I, of course, chose his associate just to spite him. He loved it. He loved me. I was fabulous. It was a fuckin' dream. Too bad I totally took it for granted. Too bad he had no idea how to NOT BE A GENIOUS.
...and now here I sit... In boringland... Incessantly staring at the tacky fabric cruelly lining the interior of my cubicle. It has a swirl pattern on it. The same swirl that adorned sectional couches in suburban rec rooms circa 1994. It makes me want to die. It makes me want to travel back in time and slice the calf of the creator of said fabric, with a shiv of an old rough-necked 40. I want to see the blood. Only then, will I feel solace.
It's 4:49 now, and after some serious shirking of the work, a couple of dodges of my supervisor, a couple of bathroom trips, and a trip to the water cooler, the end is nigh.
We're gonna make it after all.
posted by Gregory at
7:01 PM
2 Comments
