Monday, August 18, 2008

Exit scenarios

Exit scenarios – so the interview is wonderful. A little unexpected but my gut was giving me a hint this morning. I shut off my intuitive side a decade and a half ago, as I was going mad when my bullshit detector wouldn’t stop ringing. I'd meet all these people..ding, ding, ding, all day long. It was maddening. I wanted to pretend it was a malfunction but time has taught me better.

Whewf, before I get too side tracked... Then they ask if I have any belongings in my office. They retrieve all my shit, which i kept simple. I didn't make the place my personal space. They get all my shit, bring it up to me, in order to prevent me from going postal. [I learned this at one of the "sensitivity" trainings that they sent me to. SO they have these exit meetings and emphasize that I not return to the building]. So I'm being let go as I'm not the go to guy. Which made me wonder a little, what makes them think I'd suddenly display the "get up and go mad" bug now?

As if I had that much ambition invested in an agency, ran by drones for people who will be sick and ill for as long as the state has dimes and beds to dish out. The mission statement is a bit muddied but they certainly better the lives of the needy by being condescending. They're all so darn fluffy and cute, each and every one the consumers. I wanna squeeze those bedbug infested cheeks and let out a loud "hoochie coo". Each weekly review meeting the room would be filled with canned "awws" "oohs and ahhs" the same sounds you'd get if you were playing Bambi for 7 yr olds. They treat 45 yr old grown men in the same manner that you'd deal with a 4th grade insubordinate (ever read that Judy Blume book?) A lady client steals a pocket book from a customer at a supermarket. She feels the pressure and ditches the belongings, but keeps the pocket book. Her explanation "I thought the bag was pretty." Ohh.. boy.. the room was yelping, awww.....butter being melted. You really have to love the industry.

Back to the "office" environment. Here, let me describe my joyous or is it joyless locale. A no window basement office, buried in the back of a fucking old converted house. Me, my personality surrounded by paper clip pushers who knew not to rock the boat and tow the line.

I played the game, faked the enthusiasm. I pretended to give a fuck, acted like I gave a shit at the appropriate times. I read the cues, played the role but apparently I wasn’t one of “them”.I made odd cultural references, didn't give a shit about American Idol and said so... I anarchist.

I bore the brand that has long followed me around like a disease lurking beneath these layers of flesh. I didn’t buy this state of mind, didn’t buy into a lifestyle, hijack my insight. I thought like this before I ever knew what Punk Rock was. I had operation that placed a nice scar across my chest, and somewhere buried beneath my sternum the bullshit detector lays. It was my third eye, let me know how "they" perceive things, and they let me know I wasn't one of them. Oh well. Maybe the Buddhist argument is I am none of those things, I am all of those things. We are all of those things, we are nothing.

Things didn't go as planned. Oh well. The thing I most regret is not opening my mouth more. Letting the haphazardly know that I understand the plot has been laid out for the next bus to roll of the cliff. It's how things run, how things become billable.There's no point in being truthful when there's far too much money at stake. I feel bad for the doomed on the receiving end, they don't even know that they're being held down.

What ever the case might be, I’ve accepted what has been laid out before me, the road continues. The journey continues.. Melissa by my side and Sherman hopping along.. grazing on the homegrown cilantro. Here we go, three punks in a pod.

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