rude_ruca

In my life, I don't understand why sitting down in front of the screen and keyboard becomes such a daunting task. I mean I am in constant thought, like, "Gee, that'd be a good thing to get down on paper," and then I proceed to get it down on paper and my stomach begins to feel as though some one has asked me to perform the high jump, and oh, can I include a couple of fancy rolls and tucks..

So, there has been this thought lingering in my mind all morning, almost simultaneously entering my thoughts to the sounding of the morning show that I wish I could get my alarm clock unset on, but seems to be the only station that comes in clearly. Because, you know, that damn alarm noise is just too much for the nerves, short of going on blood pressure medicine, in the morning. Any who, back to the original thought, I think I am adequately, if not overly qualified to write the Memoirs of the Newby. Now, do I think people will read it? No, probably not. Do I think people can relate to it? Oh, well, who hasn't gotten the "I-will-rip-out-your-guts-for-entering-this-invoice-wrong-by-one-number" glare, or the "It-is-to-late-in-the-game-for-these-kinds-of-mistakes (even though you've only been here for less than 3 and a half months)" lecture? And it's funny, because the three people at my job whom I know just a bit more information about other than their last name, like say, oh I don't know, the city that they commute from, say things like "getting outta here someday," and "I won't be here for ever," like I imagined people in concentration camps hope and dream and speak about returning to their homes. Then there's the philosopher who tries to council me on the stress that is work life. This sage advice, of course, is brought to my in part by an ex-hippie who I like mostly because she has an awesome taste in beer. The thing that kills me though is that, in my life, yes, my young adult life, I have had enough jobs that I know what productive, fueling stress is in comparison to the kind they breed here which only leads to an ulcer, or worse, early cardiac arrest. I mean, people get SCREAMED at here. Let me put it in perspective, I've been here five months, and I have wanted to cry in frustration about this place once each per month I've been here. That's not accounting math, folks, that's the math that adds up to me wanting to leave this place.

However, I will stay. This is the one masochistic thing in my life that encourages me to press on, to endure the gut wrenching Mondays that makes me want to write. I was just writing last night in my journal that I know why I don't think I am a good, published or recognized writer and it's because I have never really put myself in it. It was something that I wanted to be in denial about, pretend was someone else's reality, and whenever I spoke about it to my friends as a kid, would always get red in the face about. The "it" by the way was the adversity, violence and inhumanities that encased about two decades of my life. And now, even in my adult life, I seemed to have bred myself so much to turn away from my reality in the past that I still seem to be running to what I had always perceived as the "norm". Now, at 23, I feel as though I am looking for situations that maybe paralleled those so I can find SOMEthing interesting to tell some one.