Rise, Rebel, Resist . . . Then Get Back To Your Job

So, I have done it.

Yes. Let us all take a moment and grieve.

I’m sucking on this lollipop for comfort. The sugar coats my mouth in hugs I want to reject and the pomegranate flavoring only reminds me how artificial the world is.

I type on this keyboard as one of YOU. One of you who spend your waking hours on the knees on cold tile surrounded by men in suits with orders and demands they expect you to follow without question. One of you who lay your head on your pillow at night dreading the following day but reveling over the twenty dollars in your wallet you can spend on a dinner with a friend. Yes, one of you who proudly boast you’re “a good worker” without even really knowing what that means.

Little tiny needles stabbed my heart the moment I had to select “responsible” over “artistic”

“Competitive” over “Complicated”,

“Punctual” over “Funny” (Of which I am obviously both)

Deep, yes?

It’s my way of saying I applied for another job today.

I also bought a Nikon D3300 DSLR camera which prompted my extensive job search. For . . . obvious reasons, I think.

MONEY. I DID IT FOR MONEY OKAY?!?!?!?!??!?! Fuck, stop pressuring me with your eyes!!!!!!

I was very particular about my choices. I want a job that doesn’t require constant flows of interaction with people (#1 requirement) and one that I don’t need a lot of oversee from managers because I know my temper, I know myself, and I know my limits. I’m not trying to “change how I act” to fit your fucking worker position, okay? Instead, I’m going to choose a job that gives me an income and fits my needs, not yours. Got it society? Fuck you.

I crack myself up.

I’m not into being one person here, and having to be a different person some place else. I am who I am. If that sounds ridiculous and you’re thinking “eh, you need to be professional in a work place, blah blah pragmatic shit” than I don’t know what to do to help you. Sure, self control is a given but any place that requires me to change who I am is a place I will never be. I’ve been on the street before, so when I say I’d prefer to live in a tent than work for some stuck up asshole for a corporation or local management or small business or whoever, than I mean it.

It got me thinking about honesty, truths, and us. We(humans) are the most untruthful group of things on this Earth. I’m pretty sure most people know that, but I think they just accept it. I . . . I don’t. If you look horrible I’m going to say dude, you look horrible. If you said something stupid I’m going to say, dude I feel like that was stupid and explain why. If you’re a customer and you personally attack me for something I have no control over, than I’m going to call you rude because that’s how you’re acting.

Hence why I want a job that doesn’t require interaction with a constant, constant flow of people. I can handle a few, I’ve always been able to. But not a lot. Not mobs of people. I’ll never be a cashier again in my life. Fuck social anxiety, that’s just a personal preference.

Employers know we lie on applications. It’s impossible NOT to. I’m not as responsible as I am artistic. I’m way more complicated than I am competitive, and I’m fucking hilarious and punctual. Put a “both” option. Why wouldn’t you want someone who is both artistic and responsible? Artistic people think about things in a different way, we’re valuable and unique. If you want a bunch of zombies willing to shine your shoes, comb your hair, lick your balls, and dress you, than please specify that in the application so I know I’m wasting my time.

So what’s the point of talking yourself up on applications and interviews if you know you’re lying, they know you’re lying, the world knows your lying, and no one gives two shits?

Obvious answer: We do it because we have to.

Obvious reply: You do it because you think you have to.

Not-so obvious reply: Who We Are by imagine dragons is an amazing song.

If everyone felt comfortable enough telling the truth, if everyone felt comfortable being human, being true to their identity, there’d be no reason to lie. Employers would have no reason to ask the same set of questions to every single person. None of us would have any reason to act like robots.

It’s not like I’m saying show up to work drunk like “here’s the real me, BITCHES” and slam a bottle upside someone’s head. That would make you stupid. I’m just saying that you shouldn’t have to talk yourself up, you should be enough the way you are.

We have issues with putting more value on one type of person than their neighbor. If you’re always on time in the morning and your coworker always comes in an hour late flustered–do they deserve to get fired? Not necessarily; maybe they’d do better with a later shift or a night shift.

What makes a “good worker” in these retail, low-end jobs anyway? Has anyone really sat down and thought about that? You don’t argue with your superiors, your opinion is only mildly validated if it’s a good, polite way to increase sales (and even then it’ll probably get shot down), you’re on time, you do what you’re supposed to, and you have very, very little chance to ever move up into any position of power. Submit and obey.

So congratulations good worker, you’re a robot.

Not that we don’t need robots. We need them badly, because they ring up our food and stock our shelves and some of them enjoy it. I won’t complain with that at all, I like food and neatly stocked shelves.

So when real, mechanical robots rise up and take over these jobs . . . what are human robots going to do?


Honesty is the best policy. If I asked a guy in store about a product, I don’t want him to tell me “oh, these specs are great, blah, blah, blah” from a textbook, I want an answer like “Well these things are cool–personally I tried it and this part of it sucked dick man”.

Wow, thank’s for your honesty. If I have the same trouble, I’ll surely bring it back.

At least I’m aware something could go wrong.

I guess that’s what online reviewers make a living doing. That and annoying the shit out of us.

I think that’s what I’m going to enjoy most about my career after my schooling gets done. I don’t need to run off anyone’s rules or anyone’s vision of professional. I run things how I want to run things. I can speak with people human to human. Don’t really know why a lot of psychiatrists don’t do psychotherapy with their patients anymore, it’s really weird. What’s the point of being a doctor if your interaction is literally so impersonal you probably forget who’s who. I understand there aren’t as many psychiatrists as psychologists and therapists but I mean . . . you’re managing their medications, substances that can (and will, if they’re on it for an extended period of time) seriously alter their life, I think you owe them a little more than a fifteen minute consultation. If they so choose.

Usually seeing a psychologist and a psychiatrist is way more expensive than if you only saw one or the other.

This article talks about this subject in good light, I think.

Honesty people.

Learn it. Love it. Live it. And if your boss don’t like it, tell him to suck it.

Just kidding. You need your job. Don’t listen to me, I’m crazy.

Yada, Yada, Yada, Masturbation or some shit

So I didn’t post yesterday (For me, that’s Halloween) so, uh . . . happy late Halloween. I was up out of the house at ten in the morning and I’ve only stopped right now, right at this very moment, as I sit on my computer at 2:12am, November first.

Now, I’m not a perfect person by any means. You all know that I advocate strong will, confidence, acceptance of self and body and yada yada yada, hippie shit, whatever. Well, I also like to party. Well . . . not party too hard. But I do like to enjoy myself. And I started at about five pm and from then on I’ve either been stoned out my eyeballs, or drinking.

If you’ve read even a sixteenth of my posts, you probably know my father is an alcoholic and you’re probably sitting there calling me a dumbass and that’s totally fine, you’re entitled to your opinion. But I don’t get drunk. I’ve always told myself from the time I was young that I’d never touch the stuff, but the truth is I will and I’ve known that since my first sip of vodka. Had a few mixed drinks (I don’t remember, Crown Royal mixed with some shit, Malibu Coconut something, then another was some kind of french something with Hennessy and was there a third type? I don’t remember, whatever), had an interesting drink that was both beer and Tequila–I actually liked it, almost like a sparkling cider taste . . . but with alcohol and not cidery. I don’t know, I suck at explaining things. I’m fucking deader than a dead horse right now.

Seriously, poke me with a stick. Do it.

So as you can fucking imagine, I’m tired as shit. Like I said, I didn’t get drunk, just a little happy, tipsy (I wasn’t gulping shit down like it would save my life) and I keep laughing because I can remember one of our conversation topics was masturbation but I don’t remember what it was about masturbation. Something about porno. I don’t know man, talking about objects or something . . . humping shit or something.

Squinting at the screen does not jog memory . . . dully noted.

You’re also probably thinking: Oh God, be careful, setting parameters for yourself doesn’t mean you’re going to follow them. I know, I know, I know. Give me a break. I may stay up late almost every night of the year, but I only stay up doing this shit once, maybe twice a year. It’s always been that way. Yada, yada, be careful, I get it, I get it. I know. I’m young and dumb. I KNOW.

But like I said, I don’t go crazy. I’m not smoking meth in a sewer pipe and downing gallons of vodka with my pet rat charlie who sits on my shoulder and doesn’t actually exist.

I did just try to backspace a typo on my computer with my phone so . . .I should probably get some sleep.

But, before I do that, I must leave you with this: The first bathroom in my county in any school that accepts “all genders” :


Don’t see how being disabled in a wheelchair is a gender but . . . I guess they tried?

It’s at my former high school. It used to only be for wheel chaired people, or otherwise disabled people, so . . . maybe they didn’t want them to feel left out and just slapped their plaque on there.

I don’t know. I’m going my ass to sleep.

I ate so much food.