ericboy's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- \"I beg to scream / I want some recognition / I'll bleed for your attention / I want your hands all over me\" - Me You put on your best suit, pressed for the occasion. You've got your lucky tie in a windsor knot; you logged onto the internet for the sole purpose of learning to tie this most elusive of reverential knots. You have your resume printed on embossed paper and your hair fashioned into a helmet of immovable perfection. "Congratulations: You've got the job." Exhileration. Fascination. Beaming pride. Well done. Time passes, the amount is irrelevant. You feel confident; you're doing well. You're told so on a regular basis. All indications are that you will be around for a while. "You've got staying power, kid," they tell you, and you believe it. Why shouldn't you? All evidence points to that being the truth. The word on the street. "We're going to restructure the company. Now you're going to be filling the position of Presidential Secondary. This means, if anything happens to the president of the company, you will assume control. Your duties will be similar, only with a few omissions. You won't be getting your hands dirty anymore. Just some regimental stuff: listening the president's concerns, taking her calls, scheduling her meeting with others, that sort of thing. Not much hands-on work with her anymore. Just general... stuff." Fair enough. You'll miss the intimacy; working closely on issues of minor importance, in the scheme of things, but rewarding, nonetheless. You won't miss it too much. You'll be fine. This new position is good. Restructuring is good. Time passes; the amount has yet to be seen. "You know, our corporate office looked over the payroll and noticed that you're our Presidential Secondary and they pointed out that a Presidential Secondary is really just another Vice President, and we don't really need two of those, now do we? So, sorry to break this to you, but you kind of got shuffled out. Tough breaks, kid. See you around the schoolyard." Restructuring is bad. Changing things is bad. Redefining your relationship to the point where you don't fucking matter is bad. This world, and all of its beauracratic bullshit that has infested, not only corporate America, but our homes and our lives and our motherfucking relationships that we use to define ourselves is bad. It is totally fucked to shit and I can't fucking stand it. Fact: we define ourselves by others. We entrust our happiness and self-image on the way others view us. Fact:When others redefine our relationship in reference to them, it destroys our self-image and our happiness and we're left scrambling to define ourselves once more. We're cut loose in the maze, only there is no cheese for us to run towards, so we just bump into walls and cry and fold into ourselves, scarred by our own immobility, waiting for something to save us. Fact: Nothing is coming to save us. For those of you reading in between the lines, the girl, the woman, the fascinating person that has been making my life so peachy-keen, is gone. She has redefined our relationship. Now, we're friends, which means that I will most likely never go anywhere with her past holding her fucking coat hanger while she slips on her jacket. Maybe that's not true. She says she cares about me, and I do believe her. But I feel defeated. What did I do wrong? Did I give her too much of me? Too little? Hold her hand too often? Not enough? Seem to interested? Not interested enough? Seem too strong? Too weak? What does it matter? I've been recategorized! May as well accept that. She says that she hopes to move past her personal demons. "Who can say what the future holds?" I really fucking hate that question. Do you know what that translates to? I'll tell you. In bloody fucking English, it means Maybe someday I'll knock on your door and ask you set your life down and pick up mine, and then again, maybe not. Cheese? That's what that Freudian line fucking means. My heart is beating so hard in my chest that it rocks my entire body. I want to break something. Correction: I want to break everything. I want to scream. I can't. I can't do any of those things. All I can do is throw my clothes in the washing machine and hit "Spin". Because time waits for no man. I got disappointed and hurt? So what? Things didn't turn out the way I'd hoped? Hey, there pal; welcome to life. It kinda sucks. Helmet? I can't stop living because of this. I have to do my laundry, brush my teeth, go to work, go to the theater, sleep once in a while, put something digestible in my body, and just plain be. But it's hard. It's hard when all you want to do is lie down and wait for the scent of cheese to re-enter your nostrils. Wait for purpose. When you define your life by someone else and that someone leaves, they don't take you with them. Only your purpose, your inspiration, your ambition, your reason for breathing. Though they've taken those things, they don't take your breath, your dreams, your heartbeat. You have to realize, inside yourself, that all of those things are still there. My heart is still beating; heavily, in fact. I'm still breathing; heavily, as well. So there must be some reason. Re-calculate. Re-define. Re-structure. Restructuring is good, if you're the one doing it. Go do it. 11:02 p.m. - 2004-08-03 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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