AUTHOR: Beth TITLE: DATE: 10/28/2003 09:59:00 PM ----- BODY:
Quarterlife Crisis I shouldn't be blogging about work. I shouldn't. Dangerous, you know. Especially with my evaluation coming up. But dammit, sometimes you just gotta let it all out, and right now I am seriously, seriously stressing about this whole evaluation thing. That was probably what my damage was this weekend. Stressing about that. I think I'm too used to being Little Miss Perfect, and I still haven't grasped the idea that having your employer pointing out a problem in an evaluation is not like getting a C on your report card. But then again, what is the American school system but training and practice for life in the industrialized workplace? I seem to have won the diploma, lost the war. I made too many errors and was tardy the first two times. I kind of flunked the midterm. This makes me nervous for the big final exam, pretty much, because unlike an A in school, this particular grade has health insurance riding on it. I feel like an old drunk at the track. Come on baby, big money, daddy needs a new pair of shoes. I really have no indication as to whether or not I'm doing well enough. Enough to keep my job, to stay afloat financially, although who am I kidding, I still live at home even with my paycheck. But that's better than no paycheck. So in the mean time, the Real World's a stage, and I am but another whiner upon it. Do you ever watch people in their cars around you in traffic and think about what people are thinking about sitting there in their little Human Transportation Pods? What would it be like for an alien race to land on a freeway in America and see us all sitting there in our little capsules of glass and metal, floating along on our rubber wheels? The strange bleating of horns, all of us shuffling along in a great synthetic herd toward our respective watering holes, no different from the Serengeti, really, just with more smog and fewer wildebeest, still fulfilling our tribal imperative to conquer, harvest, hoard, compete, reproduce... I like waxing philosophical like this. It helps me avoid the real issue at hand. The real issue being that none of this matters at all. That I'm pulling myself into degraded strings of Silly Putty just to be allowed the chance to plug myself into the Great Machine. All the energy that went into playing in the sun as a child to writing poetry on a dark street bench midwinter as a college student to standing at the edge of my own mortality as a young adult is being sublimated, subjugated, the products of the chemical reactions of aging amounting to ether and bitter memories--the fuel that powers the huge clunking machine that my car is part of, that my morning coffee from my local bagel chain is part of, that my computer is part of, that my typing fingers heading toward carpal tunnel syndrome are part of, that my bloated and abused body in its office chair is part of, a place for everything and everything in its little predetermined pigeonholed place, as surely as if I were plugged in at the back of the neck in The Matrix. The Matrix is real, and we are human batteries. It's true. Your dreams die and their corpses feed the beast. Everything's collapsed in on itself out here, and the only question left is how much I'll give up, and for how little.