To Friend, Or Not To Friend, That Is The Question

Friends. Friends, friends, friends, friends. It’s always been a touchy subject for me.

In junior high I had one friend who made friends with an older group and so I integrated myself into their group.

Well, it was much less of an integration and more like a . . . hmm. More like this:

I didn’t talk much to them, they didn’t talk much to me, but I followed them around because the idea of standing against the wall alone felt too vulnerable. Eventually I met a group of people I jived with and who didn’t bring tasers to school and we were all socially awkward together. Some of those friendships have stood the test of time, and one in particular has got me thinking about the nature of said relationships.

I have been friends with this person for many years (12?) and while I endured college and psychosis, she bumped coke and crashed cars. Granted, I was the one who introduced marijuana to her in high school, but I had enough sense to know when enough was enough. She obviously didn’t.

Psychosis and anxiety played a part, I guess. Hard to enjoy marijuana when every hit increases the two things you’re trying to escape.

She’s not quite an addict. The coke stopped when she had her kid. Now that her and her “baby daddy” (dear Christ I hate using that phrase) have split, and he takes the kid some weekends, she’s back to hanging with losers. For a while I struggled too, dipping back into Marijuana even though it caused me to end up in the E.R and the psych hospital, and back into heavy drinking even though I’d wake up crying, depressed, ready to end my life. Now that I’m more settled in my decision to stay off medication, now that I’ve got more of a healthy routine down, now that I’ve recovered from my abrupt break-up, I’m ready to move on with life. And for some reason I felt myself being called back to my old friendship.

So I’ve been hanging out with her for a few months, and it’s been fun, we have a lot of memories together and our personalities are similar. But I’m multiple people: I’m a peer worker by day (and overnight sometimes), I go to trainings and enjoy doing wholesome things with my friends/coworkers who happen to be twice my age (I’m 23). I enjoy being able to have an intelligent conversation and still find humor in so many things. And by night I’d run around the streets with her, driving places, drinking, smoking, “enjoying my twenties”.

I’m over it. That got so old so fucking quick ya’ll. Am I an old person in a young person’s body or something?

What really broke the camels back, or whatever the idiom is, punched the camel, killed the camel, whatever– wow, all three of those are horrible. What’s really made this decision for me (that’s better) was last weekend. As we wandered downtown, some people were catcalling, and while I tend to have a disgusted attitude about this, she feeds into it. The attention she receives from men–she needs it to survive. I believe it’s an insecurity thing, but having a deep conversation with her is literally impossible.

So, she went back to the group and got one dudes number. We ended up passing them one last time, where she decided to sit on the sidewalk and make a scene, smoke some weed on the street corner. Of course the group migrates over to us and while one loser is trying to hit on me, the other loser doesn’t need to do much to get her attention. They decide they want to eat at a restaurant with us, and while I’m not opposed to “making friends”, I am opposed to being surrounded by fucking morons.

Both are in their thirties and have children, young children. Why didn’t I leave? I’m not the type of person to leave a “friend” with two older men we know nothing about. Especially since she was still reeling from the molly and rave of the night before. She didn’t have a car, and I didn’t trust either of them to get her home safely. And so I stayed. I endured. I threw a lot of shade her direction masked by humor, which got a few laughs at the table. Fine. I can be an entertainer.

At the end of the night (2:50am) they took off, after one of them smacking her ass, and I took her home. Although this encounter is relatively mild (besides the constant being hit on) the reason it struck a nerve with me is because this has happened once before with her and me. In fact, my dumb 16 or 17 year old high self got in the car with two older guys (maybe early twenties? or younger. Adults.) that she said were going to take us for a ride. She lied to me. Her plan was to lose her virginity to one of them because she “couldn’t graduate high school without having lost her virginity”, because that’s something colleges and jobs care about, whether you fucked some loser or not.

Put that on your fucking resume. Literally. Your fucking resume.

They took us somewhere I didn’t recognize, and that’s when I got angry. No one would tell me where we were. I got out the car when we stopped and was pissed. She got busy with the dude in the car. The other guy, his friend, tried getting me to kiss him, to touch him, e.t.c, and I had to elbow him in the chest to the ground to get him off me. I was very athletic, strong, and wasn’t in the mood for his fucking shit. He stopped after that. We waited. They took us back to the mall. I called my mom asking her to pick us up, and called my friend a whore. We didn’t talk for a while.

I realize I’ve held onto this friendship because I’m scared of being thrown to the sharks, of having to make new friends. I’ve never been good at it. Ever. But by being around the group I have been lately, I realize what true compassion and kindness and friendship is. I never experienced it before, really. I now realize we’re at different points in our lives. We’ve both had setbacks, and we both are struggling to get on our feet. The difference is I would like to balance and she prefers the wobble.

I hope it doesn’t take her son being taken away from her for her to get the fucking picture. Because I’m done. And I’m probably the only friend she had who would actually stick their neck out for her.

Not quite sure how to start this conversation with her.

Honesty In The Real World

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This Fucking Guy Will Be In My Nightmares

I’m not a morning person.

Anyone who has had the displeasure and pleasure of knowing me for a few years would be quick to offer up the suggestion that I am a vampire. Cool bro.

So getting up at 9 a.m to be to work at 10:53 can be challenging.

Yes, we have to clock in seven minutes before our scheduled time to arrive because it takes a good four minutes to get through the maze to the room we operate in, then another two minutes or so to put your belongings in the lockers outside, get inside the door, and put your food in the fridge.

The other reasons mornings are challenging are because I don’t get very much time to spread out my anxieties. I’m anxious about the day the moment my eyes open. If I don’t have a decent amount of time to process those feelings, to spread them to every inch of my body to give my brain a fighting chance, than I’m going to have a bad time.

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For that same reason, I’m typically very irritable in the mornings. Most people don’t know this because they don’t live with me. The most outsiders (meaning people not in my apartment) see of me is the composed part of me, the part they mistake for stable and kind and sweet. If they knew the truth, if they saw me when I punched through walls and doors, burned or harmed myself, threatened to kill myself, or screeched every five seconds for the tiny little noises that bother me to the point of no return, they’d probably label me crazy.

So this morning, as I sat in my car in the rain listening to the engine idle down, I was still pushing some anxieties down. I’d taken the last Ativan yesterday for work and now my one time prescription that was supposed to be for bringing me down from panic attacks is gone. Now I’ve got to get a doctor. I’m sure they’ll be more than willing to give me an active prescription.

Although, perhaps something I can pop that’s non-habit forming. The last thing I need is an addiction. And I could see myself falling down that hole easier than you would think. I may have a strong will, but that means practically nothing in my situation.

At any rate, I got a call the second before I put my car into drive that the park was closed and they didn’t need me today.

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That left me with a lot of pent up anxiety and cortisol, so I went for a cycling ride around town. It would have ruined my day if I hadn’t.

Yesterday was very game changing for me. And thoughts of yesterday have consumed my mind today.

I always thought very highly of people with mental health issues who could be so open about themselves when they needed to be. In fact, I admire these people a great deal. It’s one thing to post yourself online to get the support of people you can’t see, it’s another thing to go out into the world where stigma is much more real and in your face and you have to watch your words.

See, we’ve got a nice little pocket here. We’ve all developed a blog-to-blog type friendship/relationship. We all have our struggles and part of the reason we read and support each other is because we know what each of us is going through. We get encouraging words from people who have never dealt with our struggles but who are interested in mental health or just think we’ve written something really touching. Which is nice. But it’s nothing compared to real life.

I wouldn’t go up to a stranger and say: “I think about killing myself very often”, or “I pretty bad have depression” or “sometimes I see spiders crawling along the shower door that apparently no one else sees”.

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I swear to God there was a spider, it was fucking huge and black. I saw it three times, every time I hit the door. I think my mother was the one tripping.

Their reaction most likely won’t be sympathetic, particularly if I keep a monotonous expression along my face as I usually have when I blog.

All the emotion sways to my fingertips when I write.

At any rate, they’re probably going to laugh. Let’s face it. It’s weird to have someone walk up to you and say something completely unexpected. They’re not laughing because they’re assholes, they’re laughing because they’re nervous and confused.

But that’s what we basically do on here. We tell the truth about ourselves in blunt words and those who are understanding and interested comment or like or read. Those who aren’t, generally don’t.

I knew I would have to have the conversation with my boss regarding my hours and my situation. I first prepared my bottom line: I settled with myself how many hours I was willing to work and how many days a week I was willing to work, and I went over in my head a million different ways to explain my brain.

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None of which were even necessary.

I told him why I couldn’t work specific times on days when I have my psychologist appointments and I told him why I even see a psychologist in the first place. I usually get flattened expressions or lack of interest, but he smiled, whether out of sympathy or genuine kindness I didn’t have time to assess.

He immediately asked if the shifts I was working at the moment were too stressful, and I said they would be once I started working on the weekdays. I said I’d prefer to work 5-6 hours at the most, but never 8. I told him I don’t want to go full time, not even in the summer when they need all the hands they can get. I told him I’m most comfortable working 5 days a week.

He agreed to it all. He asked if the environment I work in (there’s no windows or doors, just concrete) gives me anxiety but I said it was the exact opposite because of the fact I see the same faces every shift and there’s only six or seven of us. There are no loud noises (besides the giant tanks and generators outside) and everyone has been really kind to me.

And that’s the truth.

He told me if there was ever a day I felt bad or panicky or this, or that, all I had to do was let one of the leads or managers or himself know (he’s the director) and they could either let me go home early or give me a break, whichever I preferred.

10887luck-cloverI feel particularly lucky. We’re a very small department and we get personalized treatment, we really do. The main floor of the company I work for gets no such treatment. They have hundreds of employees, most of whom are under the age of 18, and things get messy and dramatic. People are over-worked and stressed out often.

We may be short staffed in our department, but at least we’re all in our twenties and thirties. Some are in their forties. No pesky kids to deal with here.

I also feel lucky because I’ve never had good reactions from the people I’ve been honest with. Most people are confused to why my problems are even problems, as if they have the right to claim them as not-problems. Friends in the past just call me crazy, others were condescending. Bosses and teachers I’ve had were always so confrontational that I never felt an ounce of comfort around them, not enough to explain the truth about myself and why I’d need some extra time to chill out.

I may not give two shits about day jobs, I may not care whether I get recognized for this, or that, or promoted or being a good worker (#loseyourintegrity) or whatever people care about, but I do give two shits about the people who work in this department. When I leave, I’m going to remember to thank them. It takes a lot to gain my trust in such a short time. 

A or B? I Choose Fuck You

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I’m in the middle of filling out an application that asked me to choose between two A and B statements. These are some examples:

“It’s difficult to be cheerful when there are so many problems to take care of” and “I could lead a small team of people but leading an entire department would be too stressful”.

And “I have difficulty building social relationships” or “I sometimes lose hope when things are not going well”.

“I prefer to let others make the important decisions at work” or “It’s hard to stay focused when so many things are happening around me”

“I rarely make an effort to learn something new unless I have to” or “I don’t think the low performers at my job will ever improve”

“Being a leader is stressful, so I prefer to be a good follower” or “I try to avoid things I’m not very good at”

“When bad things happen, it is hard for me to believe things will get any better” or “I often get angry and overreact to situations”

And then at the end they had the audacity to ask me if their assessment left me with a favorable impression of the company.

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I know you should try and make yourself sound like a self-loathing sheep with theoretical confidence in the workplace willing to bow down to the shiniest of corporate blood suckers, but I have a really hard time with that. I don’t value degrading my integrity for a job that pays minimum wage. So I mixed it up a bit and answered truthfully to my values. Will I get the job? Who knows. There were about seventy five questions, I doubt they read every single answer.

Maybe they just have a machine that rates on a scale from one to ten how dumb and sheepish the applicant is so they don’t have to do any of the work.

They need workers. It’s the holiday season. They would take a mentally challenged monkey with the insatiable urge to fling feces across the store if it meant having an extra two hands. Who gives a shit if the customers step in it and track it all over the floor–they have custodians for that–and who cares if the customer is sick of the smell; as long as they leave the store with fifty name brand products they could have gotten for thirty percent cheaper online, none of that matters.

The one choice that pissed me off the most?

“Being a leader is stressful, so I prefer to be a good follower”.

What the actual fuck. Who wakes up and says something like that to themselves? Oh, I think I’ll be a follower today and just do what I’m told, even if I’m told to shoot someone in the face by a strange masked man, I guess I’m a good follower so I’ll do it, hurr durr.

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It just astounds me. Why wouldn’t they want someone with a good mind and a good heart who can tell them where they’ve screwed up? Who can give them input? Who can see a problem from a mile away and be willing to speak up about it? Why wouldn’t you want someone with leadership qualities? Who said every person who wants to be a leader wants your piece of shit job? Are these corporate offices really so insecure about themselves that they think anyone with leadership qualities is going to burst through the top of the ladder and shove them off their own pedestal? For fuck’s sake, I just need some extra dough to help me pay back school, I don’t want your crappy job, I have my own career to attend to.

Doesn’t mean I’m going to tuck my tail between my legs and whine like an abused puppy.

Just because I have social anxiety and “have difficulty building social relationships” does not mean I’m not feisty. I’m pretty feisty.

Anyway, I answered like a good worker bee (although I deviated on a few) and I’m honestly expecting a call back pretty soon. It’ll be nice to have more of a steady income for a job I know I can handle. I know I can handle being in the back room preparing items to be put on the floor and then sometimes taking them out onto the floor. If a customer needs to ask me where something is and that’s the most interaction I have with people, I’ll be a happy camper.

I refuse to work register ever again in my life. What an excruciating existence.

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It Was Similar To This, Except The Drill Was In My Brain.

At least until I’m more comfortable around people.

I think I’m often misunderstood when I say “I can’t do that” in regards to jobs where you’re expected to be around a lot of people. I obviously know I can do it, but without the proper tools to squelch my anxiety, I’d just end up leaving the job within a month. I know myself pretty well, I’m good at avoidance; I’ve been doing it my whole life.

I need to take some baby steps here. Slowly but surely wiggle my way into these strange people’s reality and get used to shit. It’s going to take time and effort and I’m probably going to cry a lot and be angry a lot and feel worthless a lot and want to give up, but that’s withdrawal from any addiction; it’s inevitable.

My addiction is my comfort zone. And just like most people who are fully aware of their addiction, I just can’t stop on my own. I can’t quit cold turkey.

I want to, but I can’t. I’m impatient. It’s one of my strong weaknesses. You know, like the one’s they ask you to lie about in interviews.

“What’s your biggest weakness?”

“I’m lazy as fuck, I hate people, and half the time forget to take a shower.”

I want a job run by people who appreciate my honesty.

Support Of The Non-Existence Kind

Spent an hour juicing internet from my phone.

*Breathes; Does Thai Chi, smacks politician in the face, screams “Just Do It!!!!” at some golfers on a golf course, and finally falls to knees thankful the wifi gods have graced me once more*

Anyway, I had some plans to do some cool portrait photos outside with my friend but woke up at nine fifteen this morning to the sound of nuclear warheads battling it out with the Greek gods in the sky.

Turns out it was just thunder.

Lightening flashed, Thunder hit a split second later and the power surged. After the thunder paused, the power came back on. I think the street lines got scared.

It stormed for a few hours, thunder shook the entire apartment complex, all the pipes are backed up, it rained, it hailed briefly and now it’s sunny. All within the course of about five hours. Who knows what the fuck goes on in this town.

I also learned I have to pay back all the financial aid I received this semester on account of my mental breakdown and that really bummed me out. I’ve already spent some of it. It’s funny that when I vent and express my bummed-outness to people, the response I get is either

*crickets chirping*

or

“Well, I don’t know what you want me to say”.

At least I never get “Well that sucks” or “I told you so”. Those answers would just make me fly off the handle.

I’ve always had financial support. Yes, I’ve been on the street but we had money to eat and eventually hop around from hotel to hotel to basement to tent to random ass room in a house (oh man, do I have some stories from that place; I’ll probably tell one now), so I’ve never had to be on the side of the road in a sleeping bag begging for food. We were lucky we had so many connections in town. A lot of people aren’t that lucky. So I’m grateful for that and I’m not trying to seem ungrateful but . . . emotional support? It’s non-existent.

I’m always amazed at people who can speak to their parents or family or siblings about their suicidal thoughts and such. In fact, I’ve always been amazed at people who can speak freely at all to their parents, family, or siblings, whether it’s about mental health or not. I’ve always been constricted to talking to outside events with them. If not, I either get the silent, stressed-out treatment from my mother or the defensive stance from my father. I’m always the shoulder to cry on for the people I’ve been friends with in the pass, and I absolutely enjoyed being their for them, but I never realized how often I’m alone to deal with my own issues.

It’s not easy.

*Yes nature, cue the darkening of my room. Thank you for the added atmosphere.*

I think a cloud blocked the sun.

Anyway, I’m not asking for people to give me sympathy or let me curl on their lap while they pet my head and feed me ice cream. I’d just like someone to, for once, say “It’ll be okay” or “you’ll get past this” or, in response to my financial situation say “money is money, you can give it back to them, you’re not a loser, you’re just having a rough patch everyone has rough patches, you’re not a failure”. Something along those lines. I can tell myself that all I want but when I heard it from a third party, in person especially, it’s so wonderful. If anything, it boosts the confidence of my positive side. I’m always searching for reassurance for my decisions, another issues of mine, so when I receive it I feel a little more stable. Right now I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with my life anymore. I don’t want to go talk to a counselor at my college, I don’t want to deal with financial aid, I don’t want to be put on academic probation–I’ve never been that student.

In the rational part of my mind, which also happens to be the back, black abyss part that is rarely ever exercised, knows it’s not the end of the world or the end of my college career, but the irrational part of me, the one in front playing puppet master convinces me it is. Just like it convinced me I was hacking up blood yesterday and was going to die of a pulmonary embolism. In reality I had just eaten salsa and had to cough and it happened to be stained a little red. Tends to happen when you eat something red, you know?

Anyway, stayed up until 6 am believing if I closed my eyes I’d die in my sleep, so I got three hours of sleep also.

If you’ve ever experienced that type of medical health issue, I’m sorry if I sound ridiculous right now, I know how serious it is; I’m not trying to be offensive, this is just how my brain acts.

Now, I promised a bit of a story, right?

My family knew a lot of people from the apartment complex we lived in before the one we currently live in–we’d been there for about five years. One of the women (she had twin daughters) moved out before us so when we needed a place to stay, she offered us a room in the back of her house.

This is the house where my dog phobia was forcefully cured.

She fostered dogs regularly, as I’ve said before.

Anyway, our room considered of . . . a fucking room. And a bathroom. My mother and I slept on four mattresses piled on the floor and my father slept on the floor in front of the television.

This is not the house where my spider phobia was cured, however, because my spider phobia is fucking incurable. Those things are demons. This room had so many daddy-long-legs they were probably crawling in my mouth and laying eggs in my esophagus, laughing at my insolence. They enjoyed descending from the ceiling atop my face in the shower, so often I took one with my face at the ceiling. Or I took one half out of the shower and half in the shower. Honestly, I was just glad to have a shower; the last place we had been at I had to take bathes in the bathroom sink because the bathroom was only a toilet.

Anyway, things were cool until shit hit the fan. Things are usually cool until that point, right?

This woman drunk so many bottles of jack and took so many pills I don’t know how her body . . . she was like a cockroach. She’d survive the apocalypse with some painkillers and some jack and not even notice the earth imploding in on itself.

A functioning addict, if I ever saw one. She kept her job, paid her bills, maintained her house (sort of; her daughters did most of the work) and spent the weekends slamming her head into the wall threatening suicide. The paramedics came every week and eventually learned our names too. Them and my father were pretty good friends.

Her twin daughters were adults at this point, I believe . . . maybe 17, whatever, I don’t know. They had a lot of friends over. One was a lesbian and the other was not and their room was chalk full of kinky shit like whips and paddles and handcuffs and when all their friends came over I’m pretty sure they had a nice little orgy up there like no one’s business. Except, they were loud. The moans were loud. It was very obvious. So I’m not pretty sure, I’m absolutely sure.

Sex was explained to me (very appropriately and informatively) when I was eight years old and again when I was ten. By twelve, I knew what it was and I could pretty much guess when it was happening.

That knowledge when I was young helped me make better decisions when I was older. When kids came to me with bullshit rumors about getting pregnant by swallowing I dispelled that shit so quick their eyebrows singed and their eyes rolled back in their head. I was the go-to kid if you wanted to know about sex. Sounds wrong.

Anyway, for some reason the people in this house really loved to smile in our face and hatchet us in the back. The family suddenly stopped speaking with us or smiling with us or saying thank you for taking care of their suicidal mother and instead posted a sign on our door (printer paper, blue scotch tape, and black sharpie pen) stating “WE DON’T WANT YOU HERE”.

Then they slashed three tires on our 1972 Ford Ranchero; our only mode of transportation at the time. We couldn’t afford to fix it, so it got taken to the junk yard. It wasn’t junk.

I loved that car. I still love that car. Fuck them.

If you don’t have the balls to come and talk to someone in their face, than you’re a coward. The house has been demolished; the lot is empty. That’s karma.

Honesty is the best policy. Especially when brutal.

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?

Hmmmmmm.

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.