Sometimes, I think I’m too eager to please.
Oh, it’s okay to be that way around here — I can set up outlandish expectations for myself, the better to entertain you, or bore you, or confuse you with. And that’s fine. I’ll post every day, and blab as many words as I can, whatever. I’m here for you, folks. I’ll find a way.
But I think I’ve got to stop being so eager in other areas of my life. Take work, for instance. I remember, back in the day, when I was just a wide-eyed young pup — I could set too-short deadlines, and promise the moon and the stars, and actually back that shit up and deliver. I was ultra-motivated back then, hungry. Sleep meant nothing, I laughed — haughtily, even — at deadlines, and spent much of my considerable energy on getting shit done. I was a monster… a go-getter… an unstoppable, focused dynamo.
(Yeah, fine — I was a cocky, brownnosing weenie. Shaddup. Who’s tellin’ this story, anyway?)
Well. How things have changed.
Oh, I still promise the moon and the stars.
(Sometimes, even a planet or two. I especially like to promise Uranus. Heh.
‘Dude, how ’bout if I give you Uranus, too?‘
‘Would you like Uranus, while I’m at it?‘
‘Hey, let’s just buckle down and get Uranus on the schedule, too. Whaddaya say?‘
Yeah, the chicks dig me. Why do you ask?)
All right. What the hell was I saying? Oh, being a putz at work. Of course.
So, anyway, I say I’m gonna get these Herculean feats accomplished… but usually, my mouth is writing checks that my brain… well, let’s just say my brain has spent all the cash on cheap booze, high heels, and lacy panties.
(And if you can picture my brain, wearing a pink thong and sipping Boone’s Farm out of a fuck-me pump, well — you’re better off than I am, believe me. The therapist hasn’t been certified that can exorcise that shit outta my head.)
So, instead of delivering ‘the moon’ and ‘the stars’, I sometimes can only manage ‘an asteroid’, or ‘a pile of gravel’. Or I’ll manage to get the moon and stars together (often pulling them out of Uranus… yeah, you just knew that would come back to bite you in the ass, didn’t you? So to speak, of course.), but I’ll get around to it late. And I’ll be cranky, and need a beer, and it’s just not the same.
I suppose there are two ways to go, here. I could always try to recapture the energy of my youth — I could exercise more, and read up in work journals, and map projects out, and dream about whatever I’m working on… maybe I could get into that magical tantric yoga crap, while I’m at it. I hear there are some, um, ‘added benefits‘ to that stuff, too. And maybe, with all that effort, I could do all the things at work that I used to do, way back when.
On the other hand, I might fricking collapse from exhaustion, and fall into a vegetative coma. (Mmmmm… vegetation…) In any case, I wouldn’t have time to do the other things that are currently a part of my daily life — blogging, practicing standup, watching TiVoed shows, kicking the dog’s ass, tickling my wife until she pees… and those things have become rather important to me. In some cases, more important than whatever I’m working on.
(Especially the thing with the wife — if she doesn’t get her daily cootchie-cootchie-coo, we’ve got to put the rubber sheets on the bed.
Not that she would necessarily have a problem… but who knows? You can never be too careful. And she won’t wear the Depends — apparently, they chafe.)
Anyway, the other option would be to just stop being a damned putz, and make estimates and promises that involve working less than fourteen hours a day, sleeping and eating at my desk, and injecting Jolt cola into my fricking bloodstream. So far, though, it hasn’t happened. Old habits die hard, I guess.
But if this one doesn’t die soon, I’m gonna get out the butcher knives and ice picks and kill it myself. We’ll see how ‘hard’ you die, bitch. This shit’s gotta stop!Permalink | 1 Comment