the Village Knittiot

Yes. I Am Still Here. Though I think I’ve gotten lost somewhere in the depths of my SICK-TO-FUCKING-DEATH-OF-WINTER funk. It’s gotten to the point that I’m not even sure it’s winter that I’m sick of, because I feel sick of mostly everything. Which at this moment is more about hating my fucking job. Hate may not be a strong enough term. I loathe it. Despise, detest and abhor. I am made sick to my stomach by the people that I work for, and if I could walk out of there tomorrow without facing financial ruin, I would.

I had a job interview a couple days ago and there is a good chance they’ll offer me the position… But the pay isn’t any better. The hours are worse. And it’s farther from home. I’d be in an office without sunlight, that I would have to share with two other people that I may or may not like. And you know what? It’s all the same bullshit everywhere you go, so why jump from one sludge fen to another? I can’t think of any reason except maybe revenge. And that doesn’t seem like a good enough reason. Besides, revenge with a small ‘r’ is always lost on people like the bastards I work for. The only thing that would speak to them is real Revenge, and real Revenge is particularly cruel. I’m not particularly cruel, just pissed off. And truthfully, I haven’t the stomach for it.

I would be writing more. I want to be writing more. But I haven’t the energy for doing much else besides getting up in the morning, going to work, coming home, and doing it all over again the next day. Yuck.

As the great T.S. Eliot wrote:

For I have known them all already, known them all:–

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?