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People Really Do This Shit Five Days a Week?

Man, I’m pooped. This going to work business isn’t as easy as I remember it.

(On the other hand, I didn’t show up at eleven, take a three-hour lunch, and then get loaded, either. So it’s not like my last job. Not yet, anyway — it’s only the first week. Oh, hush up.)

It’s tough to actually do shit again, though. And so much shit, too! I walked, and I thought, and I listened, and I made conversation. I was like a real person again. Which was very foreign, and a little bit creepy. I was getting pretty close to perfecting the ‘asocial hermit’ thing; just another couple of weeks, and I think I’d have had it down cold. The grumpy muttering, the yelling at neighborhood kids, going out in my boxers and a T-shirt to get the mail… really, I almost mastered the whole bit. I was born to play that role.

And then I was unceremoniously thrust back into society. It’s a shock to the system, really. I feel like an astronaut coming back from a long space voyage; suddenly, the whole weight of the world is on my shoulders, and it’s a struggle even to stand up. Much less kiss ass properly, or jump ‘how high’ they tell me. I’m just not ready, dammit!

Eh. Maybe I’m just tired. I got up at seven thirty this morning, which is roughly four hours earlier than usual. And I still had to rush around all willy-nilly to get to my nine o’clock meeting on time. And then to be around people for the next eight hours, and three hours more for my class? Please! How about a little ‘me time’ over here, huh? Who do I have to sleep with around here to be left the hell alone?

(Um, actually, apparently the answer to that last question is ‘Every girl I’ve ever known except my wife’. But let’s just move on, okay? No need to dig up that sort of thing. It’s all hoes under the bridge now. Hoes under the bridge.)

Anyway, I’ve got to get up and do it all over again tomorrow, so I think I’ll cut this session a bit short. I’m not sure how many days of this in a row that I can handle, you see. I may have to start getting in bed by midnight, or even eleven!

(In other words, four hours earlier than usual.)

I’m a delicate damned flower, you know. Gotta have my resticles.

But I’ll get back into the groove, I think. I’ll relearn how to function before ten am — not function well, of course, but at least be able to friggin’ breathe without having an aneurysm. And I’ll probably remember how to use my brain for things other than baseball stats and fart jokes.

(On the other hand, both those sorts of things would seem to play well at my new office, so I can’t go too overboard with the cerebral shit. Yeah, like that’s a possibility — I’m going to be too cerebral. Sure, that’ll happen. And then I’ll grow nipples on my ass, and get my jollies squirming around in my chair all day. Right. Not gonna happen, folks.)

But I’ll cope. Hell, before this summer, I’d been working non-stop for a dozen years or more. I’ll get it back — I’m gonna make it, after all. It’ll just take some time, to adjust and adapt to the demands being placed on me. And if that means hopping in the sack before three in the morning… well, so be it. I may not know much (and I don’t), and I may annoy my new coworkers (and I will), and I may steal office supplies and sneak vodka into my Pepsi bottles (and I do). But dammit, I will find a way to do something useful at these early-morning meetings.

More useful than drooling on my chin and scratching my crotch, that is. That shit, I can do in my sleep. Come to think of it, it’s just about time for some more practice. Drooly-chinned itchy-crotched sleepytime land, here I come!