Growing up, fiction and TV gave me romantic notions about a lot of dumb shit. Take alcoholism, for example. Now I never thought full-blown drinking yourself to death in Vegas was where it’s at, but I always liked the idea of being a hard-drinking guy; someone you don’t want to go drink for drink with. I’m similarly compelled by insomnia. There were people I went to school with that endured awful sleep issues, who had totally screwed up their circadian rhythms, and I would think that must be the coolest! Up all night watching bad TV or walking the streets. I’m wasting so much usable time!
Being a workaholic is another thing that seemed cool to me. These guys you hear about who work seventy hour weeks—-it always sounded so noble. But then again, stoic behavior of any kind generally gives guys wood. Regardless, these dumb ideas I’ve had are dying one by one, and this past week I was able to strangle all the romantic notions I’ve ever had about workaholism.
I don’t talk about my job here and I’ll continue not to, in a very small part for litigious reasons but mostly because it isn’t very interesting. Suffice to say that I had a large project this past week and not enough time in the workday to finish it. I put close to sixty hours into it between Monday and Friday, and it wasn’t cool, it wasn’t noble; it was relentless and it ate my life. In the thick of it, I thought when this is all done I’m gonna live like mad. I’ll make travel plans with my wife, read Finnegan’s Wake, explore this city and I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Instead, I slept very much when I was alive, descaled the coffee maker, and watched Happy Gilmore. Oh, and I had two beers. In a row!
It occurs to me that, for better or worse, my life is as well balanced right now as it will ever be. I get these occasional urges to sleep less, or party more, or work harder, and I always suffer for it. I crash late for three days and I’m a miserable son of a bitch until I get real sleep; I drink a little more at the party and I just turn out to be the drunkest guy at the party, surely no funnier or more interesting then the second drunkest guy. I go through bouts where I think my life isn’t crazy enough and that’s when I start making these dumb experiments with sleep levels and booze. Even this blog, in some part, was an attempt to make my life more interesting. I would have to be accountable to the people who visit here. My need to have interesting stories would, by necessity, make me more interesting (or something like that). Truth is, my life is as interesting as yours is-—which is to say very much so at times, and filled only with routine and fatigue at others. I’m fundamentally okay with that. And that’s the best you’ll get here. And if you don’t like it you can fuck yourselves.
Sorry, I couldn’t figure a way to tie that one up.
Being a workaholic is another thing that seemed cool to me. These guys you hear about who work seventy hour weeks—-it always sounded so noble. But then again, stoic behavior of any kind generally gives guys wood. Regardless, these dumb ideas I’ve had are dying one by one, and this past week I was able to strangle all the romantic notions I’ve ever had about workaholism.
I don’t talk about my job here and I’ll continue not to, in a very small part for litigious reasons but mostly because it isn’t very interesting. Suffice to say that I had a large project this past week and not enough time in the workday to finish it. I put close to sixty hours into it between Monday and Friday, and it wasn’t cool, it wasn’t noble; it was relentless and it ate my life. In the thick of it, I thought when this is all done I’m gonna live like mad. I’ll make travel plans with my wife, read Finnegan’s Wake, explore this city and I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Instead, I slept very much when I was alive, descaled the coffee maker, and watched Happy Gilmore. Oh, and I had two beers. In a row!
It occurs to me that, for better or worse, my life is as well balanced right now as it will ever be. I get these occasional urges to sleep less, or party more, or work harder, and I always suffer for it. I crash late for three days and I’m a miserable son of a bitch until I get real sleep; I drink a little more at the party and I just turn out to be the drunkest guy at the party, surely no funnier or more interesting then the second drunkest guy. I go through bouts where I think my life isn’t crazy enough and that’s when I start making these dumb experiments with sleep levels and booze. Even this blog, in some part, was an attempt to make my life more interesting. I would have to be accountable to the people who visit here. My need to have interesting stories would, by necessity, make me more interesting (or something like that). Truth is, my life is as interesting as yours is-—which is to say very much so at times, and filled only with routine and fatigue at others. I’m fundamentally okay with that. And that’s the best you’ll get here. And if you don’t like it you can fuck yourselves.
Sorry, I couldn’t figure a way to tie that one up.
Comments
What the hell am I paying you for?
Yeah, creating an "interesting life" would be cool. But then, it depends what you want out of life, right?
I know, myself, I'm happily married. I've done some cool things. I've been thrown out of a place. I've crashed at 11 after giving a stupid speech about university to a bunch of people who I thought were hanging on my every word. Of course, they were just humouring my young, drunken ass, and I was also pretty loud...
I've screeched, I've rafted, I still camp. Most of all, though, I have laughed my ass of with my greatest friends, and will do so for years to come.
Ironically, what we find dull and boring, others find interesting. I guess that's what blogging is all about. :)
Oh yes, did I mention that a friend of mine zipped up my pants for me once, after I passed out after taking a whiz?
He didn't "tuck" though.
And I find when the most interesting thing happens to me, when I go to a 3 day long party and witness things not meant for human eyes, I don't write about it. I write about what I had for dinner instead. It seems more satisfying to make something out of the mundane somehow. But then, maybe that's just the insomnia talking. Or the booze.