I hate my job.
I hate my job.
I hate my fucking job.
I sit at a desk and I look at the screen and think of all the people out there, people with jobs they like and jobs they enjoy and jobs they maybe don’t even need but they just get up and do anyway because it’s part of who they are.
I wonder about those women who you ask at a party, what do you do? Who can answer without an apologetic “well, it pays the rent”. Those women who you would want to talk to, whose answers lead to questions and whose questions make you want to know more and more…
People who help people, people who make fantastic amounts of money, people who are responsible for things we eat and watch and think and feel and want….
I don’t want to be massively rich or famous, just not….
I’m a telemarketer and I earn minimum wage… or maybe a little more than that, but it’s awful. It’s awful and boring and shit and it gives me a headache and makes me comfort eat. If I stay in this job for too long, I will become a fat telemarketer and I will have nothing to talk about and I will just want to spend time with other fat telemarketers because at least they will laugh at my impression of the creepy Albanian guy eating his beetroot out of a lunchbox and will ooh and aah at my latest report on the office bitch. Then I will be a completely uninteresting person and I will probably forget all about how miserable I am and just start aiming for minor promotions until I marry some boor with neck acne and a Dunnes Stores shirt because he’s the best looking guy I see daily, and maybe he’s the office alpha male and his same wage as mine but no shopping addiction allows him to impress me by buying rounds, and then I’ll be bored and I’ll become exited about maternity leave and I’ll wind up living on the outskirts of Dublin in some nice big house and there I will DIE a boring fat telemarketer.
I don’t want to do this, not even for a few months, because that is definitely what will happen to me and I know myself, I leap into things so it would all probably go down in a space of two years.
But what ELSE can I do?
All I want to do is write.
I want to write but I feel like the people whose jobs are writing have either done the time in college or know the people or have some secret ingredient that’s just missing from me. Those people who just push themselves forward and seek out what they need to get what they want and I just languish, pining after the end result with no idea of what to do to get that.
I had another great weekend, a long weekend with a Bank Holiday Monday and I spent three solid days and nights drinking and taking drugs and having fun and laughing and smiling and people I didn’t know came up to me and told me I had a wonderful smile and was a wonderful dancer and when I danced I looked so happy… And they were on drugs too so that’s probably why, but I felt like I was at home again, and everyone was lovely and I felt like part of the city.
I took the bus in to work on Friday and I sat in the back facing the wrong way and watched the streets fly past. Dublin welled up inside me and I thought about why I came home and I felt happy and excited and told myself this is it, this is where you want to be and you don’t want to just be some asshole living for the weekend. Go out, lose control, get into stupid situations, say yes to drugs, fuck a knacker you don’t want to see again, hang out on the steps smoking joints and don’t worry about sitting in pee.
When I was wild I was vulnerable and I always got hurt but man, I love who I was. I would be proud to be the one who gets hurt again because now all I do is skirt around anything scary and I meet men and I’m not very nice to them and I act like I’m being the open and honest one but all I do is tell a different lie than they do.
I used to throw myself into the traffic of men, and they ran me down and again and again I wondered what was wrong with me. I’m still meeting the same imperfect candidates but now but they don’t really stand a chance now….
I went out on Friday afternoon and I stayed on the session til Monday morning. I brought friends back to the bedsit and we drank bottles of lukewarm buckfast and Jameson from the bottle and cans of Dutch Gold. I met an old friend I had never had a single romantic thought about and I said to him inexplicably in the pub, what do you reckon? And he said about what? And I said what do you reckon? And he said… good Dj? And I said no… WHAT DO YOU RECKON. And then somehow that made sense and we got into a taxi and went back to my place and had sex but mostly we didn’t have sex, mostly we just kissed and held each other and fuck it felt good, although the sex barely even registered… Neither of us were in a fit state, but it felt good to touch someone…. Maybe it was the ecstasy, oh yes it was definitely the ecstasy but I remembered how nice it was, the other bits of sex. I haven’t been close with anyone in years, because all the sex I’ve been having has been unfeeling on my side at least. I keep looking for the wrong things. I haven’t found the right thing either but it’s like, it was just nice to lie there with someone I feel at all close to. He’s just a friend, and an old friend I haven’t been in touch with lately… I’m sure it would be awful and awkward and not the same if we tried it sober, but it was a good feeling.
I’m getting lonely, properly lonely.
But I’m still happy.
I finally have a social life with people who will stay on the session for three days, not like the Italians with their three drinks and then go home…. People here you can wheedle and coax and bully into staying, regardless of work in the morning or family comittments…
Ah I needed this…
And I am probably not in the best mental shape after that weekend.
I’d like to meet a man I like. An older man with filthy suggestions in his eyes and interesting tales on his lips. A man who neither sleazes onto me, nor waits for me to TELL him we will be making the bactrian camel later. I like a good hand on my waist, the suggestion of claiming my body… Ohhh I’m horny.
And I have my job to go to in the mornings and my bedsit to come home to at night.
The weekends are all hope and pressure to enjoy it all.
I spend all my money at the weekends…
I want to quit my job and be a writer and write with my energy instead of coming home from that shitty, awful job that’s chipping away at me, and feeling like writing but then realising I need to wash clothes and they never dry outside and I have to wash my hair and iron clothes for my shitty job.
I’m writing today because I have nothing to watch and because I have been meaning to write for ages, but it’s like… blerg. I don’t want to just be complaining, it is still kind of the nasty depressing aftermath of a long weekend. I just wanted to get some of this out….
Man, I hate my job.
But I’m still happier here than in Italy.
I just wish I didn’t have to do my stupid job….