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Confession
thejanechord
Diaryland
notifylist.com
2003-02-27
4:35 p.m.
I have nothing to say. My surroundings of late are merely horrifically monotonous days of frantic business at work followed by hours of torturous reading of Villette, an atrociously long novel by Charlotte Bronte that does not hold my interest at all. After that, when I have a moment to stop and think about what I’m thinking about, I realize I’m too tired to think at all and I want nothing more than to stare for hours at the television because I’ve already used my brain too much for one year.
Christ, things are dull right now.
The snow a few weeks ago livened things up for a few days and it was nice to have President’s Day off work, but overall, I’m tired of life. I’m so blase about everything. I have no desire to do anything at all, and yet, I really have no reason to care that I don’t care. I’m indifferent: completely indifferent to everything.
The hectic things at work are driving everyone insane, but I’m so removed from care that I just shake my head, shrug my shoulders, and say, “Whatever. It’s not my problem.” I get a bit of satisfaction out of realizing that no matter what I do, it’s no big deal because I’m really not important enough at my job for any mistake to be entirely my fault. There’s always someone else to blame, and it’s usually their fault anyway.
People at work appear to have given up on being nice to me. Even the nice people in the office are speaking to me less and less, and I’m sure it’s because I don’t really care what they have to say and I don’t care to respond to them. I spend my days staring at my computer, doing whatever work is tossed on my desk, and then running out the door at exactly five o’clock, hoping that no one stops me along the way.
The people in my office aren’t all that bad. I really just can’t stand having to talk to them. I can’t stand having to think about being cheerful for them. I’m not a cheerful person, and I am damn tired of pretending to be. Perhaps working at Old Navy (I can say it now that I don’t work there anymore) took the last bits of cheerful affectation from my soul.
There’s no more cheerfulness left -- not even the fake kind.
Even around my family, it’s getting nearly impossible for me to pretend to be happy. Luckily, I’m no longer smiling on my face while a disaster struggles to reveal itself from the inside and anger tries to tear apart the smile because of the seething feeling that I’m cheating reality by putting on a facade. I’m too tired to do that now. Maybe I’m too old. I don’t know, and I certainly don’t care. It’s just life, after all.
Why get all worked up about it?
