Every time I converse at work, I hate myself a little more. I'm getting too good at this role I play. I'm not a real sycophant, I just play one at the office.

Most days, I don't really talk to anyone. This isn't intentional; I just have a proclivity toward reclusion. It's not that I don't want to socialize, my co-workers are fine people, but I don't know them and the only way I can think of getting to know them is by engaging in conversation during run-ins at the copy machine or (please forgive the cliche) by the water cooler. The brevity of these encounters procludes the formulation of any real conversation, so what I know about the lives most of my co-workers are lists of details, e.g. where they live, how long they've worked here, what they do, if they have kids, etc. Then, of course, there's the "feeling" you get from first impressions. These feelings, or hunches, combined with the logs of personal information we've compiled, comprise what I and my co-workers know about each other. It's not shallowness, necessarily; it's just ... difficult. The context is weird, and I'm shy.

Also, the my catalog of interpersonal details is rather stunted, because collecting them, as I'm sure you've noticed, is the most soul-sucking excercise known to man! Seriously, I'd rather be alone. Small talk fuels passive-aggression which fuels intense self-loathing, or so I believe. It's easier and more honest to keep quiet than to just deliver banal commentary to fill the air. Goddamn. Useless conversation makes you feel useless, and then you start to rot inside.

Hey, who's up for a big bowl of melodrama? Sorry.

Man, I wish I had rollerskates. I have this sort of hallway vertigo ... I think that hallways were built for cartwheels, somersaults, and rollerskating. It's all I can do, most days, to keep myself from launching into a round-off when delivering stuff to the Human Resources Department. I think that rollerskates would greatly improve employee morale. I also think that any office environment can be enhanced by the installment of a waterslide or a space trolley.

If I'm ever rich enough to live in my dream house, I'll build an estate consisting of a series of big, beautiful treehouses interconnnected by space trollies, tire swings, slides, and rope bridges. Of course, there will be easier alternatives to getting to each house from the ground, or from the other houses, because it would have to be handicap accessible, but I'd never use them. I want a big ravine in my backyard, too, with a playground paradise of trees, swings, and climbing devices. I'd never have to touch ground, because I'd be rich enough to order all my groceries and laundry and stuff. Oh my, how I'd love that. I've thought about this a lot. I would have the coolest house ever featured on MTV Cribs, (shut up ... I love that show ...) and I'd invite all the cameramen to stay for a beer after filming, because I'd be the coolest celebrity ever. They could even play on my playground paradise, because hell, that's what it's there for.

These are the things I think about when I'm running or biking or something. I also compose my Tony and Oscar acceptance speeches. Usually, in these daydreams, I fall when I'm heading to the stage to accept the trophy, because I'm wearing a long dress and heels, and I'm crying and snotting all over myself. Because that's totally how it would happen. But I'd be loved for it.

I keep telling myself that there's no reason in the world why I can't have the very life that I fantasize about.

If I see my fantasies to fruition, then I could use my treadmill time for more useful thought, like figuring out who's gonna fill up the tank on my private jet and that shit.

Oh, my boss sent in his enrollment form for the "Who's Who in American Executives" thing (or whatever it was) today. I toldja.

I can't do this forever. I don't mean that as a complaint, just a statement of fact. I'll say it again, I like my job, it is a good job for good people and an overall good cause. I've come to learn that I really am helpful and appreciated. It's just that I can see how people end up at jobs like mine for the rest of their lives, and it's the exact opposite of what I've always thought I wanted. Many of those goals were nebulous, anyway, but they were mine, they were me.

I don't even know how much I believe that. One is not one's job. But one's job is often an integral component in one's happiness, and one is one's happiness. Or rather, happiness indicates that one is being true to oneself.

Before I get too spirally and philosophical, I'm going to go home. I'm going to the gym, which of course means I'll be on the treadmill, constructing a few more vivid delusions. Yay!

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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