I’m in a different mood now. The work day is behind me. The bands of light through the string-holes in the blinds are on the closet door, now, instead of across the table and up the wall. Otherwise, the lighting is very similar, and I’m in the same room, in the same seat, at the same computer, on the same site, working in the same little text-editing box, in this same text-editing font; but I’m in a different mood about everything.
A moment ago, I sneezed hard carrying a mug of newly poured, freshly brewed coffee through the bedroom. An involuntary jerk coincided with the sneeze. The coffee did splash. The skin of my hand got involved. The wood of the floor got involved. A pillow on the ground where the dog had been curled up earlier got involved. This while on my way to the computer to write about what I felt I needed to discuss today.
"Antisocial" is currently listed on Fig 2 of the previous entry as the interaction of the traits Disagreeableness and Introversion. The term ‘antisocial’ means something very specific in Psych, however, and Dictionary.com defines it roughly the way I remembered it from school: "of or pertaining to a pattern of behavior in which social norms and the rights of others are persistently violated." There is no hint of shyness involved in this definition. It says nothing about the Extro- or Introversion of the perpetrator. Hmm.
I am no good on these Saturdays when I work. These shifts, they are lucrative, but they are not for me. The clientele is friendlier at night, and I adapt excellently to the longer, slower format, but these shifts are not for me. They are easy and fun, and I always cheer up once I’m on-clock, but I tell you I do not like them. Whatever for? Because. All morning long, before I suit up and breathe in and head out, all I can think about is the vanishing day, my shrinking burning lessening allotment of freedom. It’s the dread daylight that precedes the inevitable pre-work shower and comb and toothbrush that makes me, as I said, no good. My personality is different on these Saturdays. It changes in precisely the following ways.
I’ve been answering the phone more. Mom calls and I answer. Last time, we talked for over half an hour. She caught me up on Grandma’s situation, and then told me about the art she’s been doing. She’s been trying to get back into art. I caught her up on work drama, and she told me I should man up and let my manager know I’m interested in and ready for a promotion. I told her the truth: that I’m not afraid to do this. No manning up necessary, I am already there. At least in regards to minor workplace confrontations.
But then a week goes by, and some more time, and I just keep going to and from work as though this is good.
Although it’s sort of complicated, all you need to know is that I score Somewhat Low on a personality trait called “Conscientiousness.” To be Conscientious, in personality psych, doesn’t mean to be thoughtful or kind, but rather hard-working, organized, the opposite of distracted or impulsive; granted, there is a certain element of thoughtfulness to Conscientiousness, but it’s more like external awareness: highly Conscientious folks are statistically more apt to remember your birthday, and then to call or text you making sure they have your address up to date so that they can send you a card.
I wrote for over an hour. I was creating “Tags” for the finished post and accidentally hit the backspace key. Chrome’s like, “You sure you want to leave this page?” I’m like “No, oops.” And but it’s stuck on that question. I click “Stay on this page” a thousand million times, but nothing. I try to X out of the question, but no. I even cave and click “Leave this page,” just to see if it’ll—nothing. I ctrl+alt+del and shut down Chrome and cross my fingers and lo and behold: the post is lost, forgotten, never happened. Chrome just looks at me like I’m crazy when I tell it I spent the last hour using it, typing in it, creating a lengthy and interesting post via it. Why my hostility, it wonders.
Dear every internet browser: for the umpteenth fucking goddamned time, why the fucking fuck is the backspace key a fucking “Back” hot key? Nobody wants that fucking hot key. Fuck your stupid hot key. Make F10 the fucking hot key. Make it some key way up and off to the side. How about the |\ key, or the ~` key. How about no fucking key at all. How about I just click the “Back” button any time I want to go back, like a regular fucking person. Irreversible deletion should not be swift and convenient.
Here’s that follow-up text from Moot.
Everything I did last year, the whole trilogy, was in hopes of generating enough unique material to piece together a complete album of my own. I have finished my task. I call it Little Ghost. It still has one cover on it, but fuck.
Mrm and I know we’re awesome. And so every year, on January 19th, we take time to celebrate that we’re awesome.
Allow me to introduce Mr. Burger’s newest, greatest, and first-ever other staff-member, Brian!
Her amazing wail answers her earlier question: What if your own skin makes your skin crawl? Well, maybe you try and turn those feelings into something. Like, say, write and record a terrifically moving song called “Fiya” in your living room. You’ll feel a little better. And then those of us who understand those shitty feelings can sit around and listen to “Fiya”, and we’ll feel better too. That’s what the intimacy of home-recorded music is all about.
For the last few weeks, alone in his apartment, the man has been watching what of Mad Men there is on Netflix. At one point, one character says to Don Draper something like, “What it all boils down to is: what we want versus what’s expected of us.”
First thing, the light in the blinds is gray not gold. It’s dull not bright. The air later is wet. Leaves on the ground have no crunch to them. Leaves on the branches curl inward.
The man is chronically forgetful. Last night, the man forgot to charge his phone. Shortly before work today, the man realizes his phone isn’t charged enough to last him the whole day. He plugs his phone in—and then wonders if he’ll remember to retrieve it later, on his way out the door.
The man’s desk sits in the back room of his apartment. The desk is a thing well-built. He keeps his laptop there, and uses the laptop daily; which is to say, he uses the well-built desk daily, and likes the desk. It has a nice glass top. Its seven drawers each have a sweet heavy smell, and glide quietly in and out. He actually keeps things organized inside the desk. The man likes the desk.
The man once left some money counted out on the desk, and a visiting woman had folded seven dollars of it into shapes.