I had lunch with a friend today, and we talked at length about our stagnant professional lives. Like me, she graduated with a music degree. Like me, she looked for "grownup" jobs and found only food service. Like me, everyone keeps telling her how lucky she is for having any full-time job at all, even though she doesn't feel lucky and the people saying so have better jobs anyway.
She asked me,
"Do you ever find that you talk to people you used to be friends with, but you have nothing to talk to them about?"
The answer was yes, and it was a horrible realization. I told her about my blog and how I can't think of anything to write for it, save discussions on either my job or the latest book/movie/TV show on which I feel like commenting. Then I thought about my favorite blogs and what make them so great: they're about people and the things they do - not the things they watch, see, or read. They're about people living their lives. In many ways, I'm just not living mine right now. I wish this weren't so, but I can't make my life into anything it isn't. Perhaps this is just an extra push toward improving the circumstances around me; even if drastic life changes are brought on by the need for something to write about, at least they've come to fruition, right?
On another note, I had to park pretty far away from work because of street sweeping today, and ended up on the same street where I used to park when I visited my ex-boyfriend while he was living with a she-devil of a roommate who drove him out within the month. It has been almost eight months since she threw my shoes at me and told me to get the fuck out of her house, lied to her landlady and said I was living there full-time, and told her brothers that my boyfriend had kidnapped her dog just to get them to threaten assault on him. (Yes, there's a huge back story to this, but I don't feel like describing the whole debacle.)
The point is, it's been eight months and I barely had more than a few minutes' worth of contact with the bitch at a time, but my hatred has not left my soul; it has merely grown dull like a throbbing ache. I took one look at her apartment building today and, though I have the perspective to know she was wrong and that she's just a jealous, ugly, insecure piece of shit, and that she had to fabricate and manipulate just to justify her shrewish behavior, the desire to spray-paint the word CUNT on the hood of her car has not left me. I now know how and why people have such a hard time forgetting the ways in which they were wronged. I'm too much a godless heathen to embrace forgiveness, and too much a coward to embrace violence. So instead, I keep my hate for this and all the rest of the world's scumbags neatly tucked away somewhere, all the while hoping some crackhead defaces her property and/or she gets hit by a bus so I'm not tempted to make either of those things happen myself.
Anger has this weird way of seeming very focused until you try to examine it, like a bright spot in the corner of your eye that goes away when you try to look at it. It comes from so many places and then gets fired off in so many directions, it is impossible to pick it apart. I'm tired of being angry. Can I just take a vacation from it for a while? Or forever?
On an even less related note, is it really shady to say I am familiar with Microsoft Excel when all I really know how to do is type numbers into boxes and hit Ctrl+S to save?