Category: work

my annual dose of ptsd

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It’s the Christmas party of my former place of employment, which drove me to the brink, out of my mind, and into crippling debt in trying to think there was a way out of it all.

My wife still works there. It’s still awful.

On the plus side, they fired a bunch of people, so it looks like they’re paring down to sell.

So, maybe ten years of this annual reminder of workplace PTSD can be fucking done.

But not yet.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 242 words, comic: Western Cradle #4

Read: Tropic Of Kansas, Christopher Brown
Comics: Preacher 41-44
Music: Nico, Blind Melon (talk about sexy)

the need for vengeance

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I understand the impulse, from a fiction standpoint. Who doesn’t love a good revenge story?

John Wick isn’t what it is for nothing. (They killed his dog, so he spent four movies murdering everyone that’s ever been even tangentially related to the guy who did it. As a dog owner, I’ve never been more invested.)

The problem is that revenge seldom works out the way we want. The fantasy that plays in our head of getting that asshole boss in trouble with HR or having the perfect takedown of that bitchy girl in your friend group, more often than not, what happens is… nothing.

HR doesn’t care, because that asshole boss is so far up his asshole boss’ ass that HR finds him untouchable. That bitchy girl, she’s been insulting people so long, she rebuts with a brutal takedown of her own, and it has truth in it, and you’re cut to the quick. Your friends all titter, because they, too, are assholes.

Congratulations, you’ve just made your life worse.

All I’m saying is that as nice as the fantasy is, unless you’re some superheroic powered individual like John Wick, it probably won’t work out for you. Better to cut those influences without words, and move toward your happy, rather than your revenge.

Of course, some of us can’t, and that seething anger becomes all consuming, until we’re delusional about the whole damn thing.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 360 words, comic: Western Cradle #2

Read: The Autobiography Of Malcolm X, Malcolm X (and Alex Haley, I guess)
Comics: Preacher 9-12
Music: New Wave, Against Me!

i get it; i’m late

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For all the things I wanted to do with my life, I probably would have had to start as a teenager.

Unfortunately, the lessons I needed to learn, the skills I had to grow (and am still growing), the mindset, the life experience, all that stuff… it unfolded a little slower than it probably should have.

Maybe I could have gone a more traditional route, and maybe I could have been content with that, but when have I ever been content with anything? In the moment, I can be, in the midst of a good meal or a great book or great sex, a nice moment in the sun while walking the dogs.

But isn’t that the only time ever?

I know it will take me probably until I’m a hundred and no longer able to function physically or mentally to do the work that I want to do, to see the places I wanted to see, to have all the experiences I’ve desired.

I probably won’t make it, barring terrific medical advances. Of course, I could live that long but the growing spectre of fascism, the threat of climate change, bigotry and hatred, the complete breakdown of both civility and the willingness to stand up for what is right, in action more than words, is likely to end this planet (or at least my life or the ability to do the things I desire to do), all that pretty well guarantees that this is a fool’s errand.

But what’s the alternative?

Giving up?

I know I’m a late bloomer, but hell. Fuck it.

There’s no do-overs, so it’s now or never, and if I die in the attempt, without making the impact I would have liked, well, there’s no shame in trying.

Only in giving up.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 1479 words, short story: Late Riser

Read: The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho (also, this has nothing to do with this book, it was garbage, like Eckhart Tolle fucked Hans Christian Andersen and their baby read The Secret on the way out - stuff like this is why people get stuck in their own heads thinking they just have think things into existence, or that all skill is just natural, instead doing the fucking work.)
Comics: Chew 42-44, Chew: Warrior Chicken Poyo (POYO!) 1
Music: The New Abnormal, The Strokes

early risin’

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I’m up earlier than I wanted to be, but so is everyone else, which kills my time to meditate and read and put on headphones and plow through a random selection of music on my way to the second coffee of the day.

And I’m thinking about time.

I’m thinking about how frozen I am; how stuck; how the only barrier to me getting what I want and being the thing I want to be is myself and this mental block, this block behind the tires of the trailer that is my mind.

My wheels are spinnin’.

Moving beyond is terrifying; there’s so many bad things going on in the world right now to stop it from ever happening, but I cannot control those. I can only control what I need to do to get what’s in my head out of my head.

It’s getting past that that’s the real trick.

Can I get it done before I die? How does the world find it if I do?

Geez. I guess there really was a theme to all this.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 1273 words, short story: Late Riser

Read: The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho
Comics: Chew 39-41, Chew/Revival 1
Music: Nevermind, Nirvana (in a day of uncertainty and terror, transcendence was necessary)

legacy

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I want to leave behind a body of work that people can dig into and enjoy, even if it’s just in the dissection of me as a person.

I’m sure it won’t all be flattering; I’ve behaved terribly at times.

Such is the life of a drunken wannabe punk kid from the small towns of Ontario. You’ll say and do shit to regret later; apologies don’t mean it didn’t happen.

It also doesn’t mean it’s who you ended up.

I don’t know how I’ll end up.

But I’m worried I don’t have the stamina or force of will for the long run.

Please don’t let me end up one of these cozy mystery writers, or some detective or spy novel fuck, churning out the same formulaic CSI bullshit each week.

It’s always the goddamned butler.

I want my legacy to be more complex than that.

More compelling; equally pathetic, mildly horrific, one long cringe punctuated by the occasional, “Okay, he’s growing on me.”

He’s getting better.

Please let me leave it behind.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 326 words, poem: Roses And Violets

Read: Constellation Games, Leonard Richardson
Comics: Chew 9-12
Music: Never Been On MTV, Dead Kennedys

shocker

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Karma actually came back on someone.

Turns out, when you keep going over people’s heads and make spurious claims about how busy you are when you have to work alone, despite the fact that no one else is even remotely busy at that time of day and you’re known to be way too goddamned slow at everything because you’re too busy going over people’s heads to bitch instead of just doing your fucking job, which screws over everyone’s schedules as the upper management plays stupid games and takes you at face value, it doesn’t actually protect you from getting cut when they realize that they don’t actually need that many people.

I’m surprised. Between this and the easy sink fix, the universe rarely works this way.

At least, not for me. The universe may be just; humanity certainly is not.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 734 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Words For Pictures, Brian Michael Bendis
Comics: The Boys 21-24
Music: Utopia, Bjork

midweek

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Granted, it’s a short week because of Remembrance Day, but still.

Halfway.

I feel for veterans; having been through the war to end all wars, they must be devastated to think they went through so much to end up just having it come back around in their own country.

Sickening.

I’m heartbroken for many reasons, but that’s a big one this week.

To have fought so hard and with such cost, only to have some fucking draft-dodgin’ rich fuck come around and hand your own country right into the hands of those who would have it destroyed?

Anger isn’t a strong enough word for what I would feel.

Target: 900 words
Written: 1308 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Robinson Crusoe, Daniel Defoe
Comics: 100 Bullets: Lono 5-8
Music: Uptown Avondale, Afghan Whigs

plugged

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Like my whole life, I am plugged up. Stuck. Caught in a relentless onslaught that packs behind my skull and makes it impossible to hear or breathe.

I sweat.

Blow my nose, more comes. Autoreplicating, instantaneous snot, filling every inch of headspace.

Ears pounding, I cannot hear.

I am on a subway; I am underwater.

I am cold, and yet, simultaneously, the boiling man.

I am man-baby, trying not to let on that I suffer, while suffering audibly.

To bed, to bed.

Illness is weakness; no, to work.

Target: 900 words
Written: 507 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Shining, Stephen King
Comics: 100 Bullets 49-52
Music: Cutthroat, Interpol (could I?)

ptdr

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AKA, the bane of all work’s existence right now.

Would that they could communicate changes before they expect you to endure them.

Target: 900 words
Written: 745 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Queen Of Sorcery, David Eddings
Comics: Once And Future 3-4, Die 9-10
Music: Live Things, Nirvana

crowfest

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I feel like it’s such a cool idea that needs better execution. Vendors, buskers, but like what about the other public stuff? I’m sure the gala was cool, but that’s limited to whoever can afford tickets.

Beyond that, there should be dark movies in the park, dark dances, dark whatever.

Like early Hallowe’en, but crow themed.

Anyway, I had a couple of nice glasses of wine while people watching, and the dogs were happy, even when our waitress tripped over her.

On a side note: that boss clearly has a type and one must ask in this day and age, is it still okay only to hire nothing but attractive girls and put them in the shortest miniskirts possible? Like, I understand the need for uniforms in a customer service business, and she was great, knew what she was doing and seemed very nice and all that, but yeah. I hope her and her fellow waitresses don’t have to put up with a lecherous owner or manager. With all the stories that have come out over the last few years, one has to wonder.

Anyway, all in all, Crowfest, in its third year (and finally having realized that if you’re going to have people outside, you don’t want it in late October/November) remains a nugget of untapped potential, going who knows where.

Sounds familiar.

Target: 900 words
Written: 2923 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Unholy Night, Seth Grahame-Smith
Comics: Phonogram: The Singles Club 7, The Wicked + The Divine 1-3
Music: Unknown Stuff, Spacehog