“I Might Prefer Chaos to Even Flow”

Not a believer of luck, good or bad. Not the superstitious type. Sure, I might joke about the terrible things that happen on Friday the 13th, but I don’t actually think the date is the reason behind them. Bad things happen no matter the day. Apparently, we just focus on the bad things when the day is designated for them.

Friday morning, the first thought I had waking up was—”Why do we have to open the building open Saturday morning so maintenance can leave the moon jumps there when we can just move them ourselves?” When you’re this dedicated on pulling off a great event, I suppose you eat, sleep, and shit such things.

And when I arrived at work, my supervisor greeted me with a question, “Are you ready for today?”

“Heh, no. But that’s my secret,” I said, trying to pull off my best Bruce Banner impersonation. “I’m never ready.”

If I anticipate something too much, that anticipation becomes anxiety. And anxiety causes mistakes. So after I ate breakfast (egg, hash brown, and sausage tacos), I gathered my troops (minus one) and started the day. We filled two vans and the bed of a truck and headed off the arduous journey the faraway land of the activity center, just down the road from our humble workplace. As we were packing the last of our things, we noticed one member of our party missing. Because I walked to the activity center, I figured our paths would eventually cross. They didn’t.

“Where’s (let’s call him) Bartleby?”*

“I saw him coming this way,” one said. “He said he wasn’t feeling well this morning,” another remarked. “I don’t know,” the last said.

Because we were missing things, the four of them returned to work to gather the rest of the things and to find Bartleby. But, surprise surprise, Bartleby was nowhere to be found. They asked his department coworkers about his whereabouts and they thought he was with us. They searched the building and turned up nothing. When they returned to the activity center, they told me there was no sign of him. No one knew where he’d gone.

It didn’t surprise me that Bartleby weaseled out of work. He didn’t earn this moniker because he’s the model employee (though, I’m sure he’ll earn Employee of the Month before I do). Frustrated that he’ll somehow get me into trouble, I called my supervisor. “We lost Bartleby,” I said. “They asked the people and they couldn’t find him. He said he wasn’t feeling well this morning, and I’m a little worried that maybe he’s sick somewhere and no one knows.”

“I’ll call George,” he responded.**

We started without him. Though, when did arrive, his only offering of help was an onslaught of heavy sighs, complaints about not feeling well, and, of course, whining. We were better off without him.

Once more, we’re faced to go back to the office to pick up some more materials. Before we go back though, Bartleby spoke up, “Which one of you called work looking for me?”

“Me,” I said. “When you didn’t show up and no one could find you at work, I got worried. I heard you weren’t feeling well, so I called to see if you were ok.”

“Yeah, well now I have George running up my ass accusing me of wasting time.” Then switching to the most menacing tone I’ve ever experienced  in the work place, he added, “Next time you’re looking for me, come look for me. Don’t call my supervisor.”

This veiled threat from a subordinate might have fallen on deaf ears had Bartleby not been foolish enough to say this in front of witnesses. On the way back, I’m asked, “Was he threatening you?”

“That’s how I felt.”

Word must have gotten back about this gaffe. And because of his mess up, George was now up his and his coworker’s ass. This caused more stress on my understaffed department. My temper at work is calm and cool. You have to be when your work involves children. Number of times I’ve lost my cool with a patron? Once in seven years. And I was off that day.

I gave up on their help. Just go back to work. We’re done with you here. Of course, this didn’t make George any the happier because now he had two extra employees who shouldn’t have been scheduled that morning. Not my problem. Not anymore.

Chaos ensued back at the office. It was our graphic designer’s last day and I bombarded her with last-minute requests made by both George and my ultra anxious supervisor. Nothing good from anxiety, so I did my best to keep him calm.”We have it covered,” I said. “Do you need help?” he asked. “We have the morning covered. We might need more help come the afternoon when we decorate. Maybe some of the girls can come over?” Sexist, I know. But I’d rather have a couple of hardworking ladies than a man-child who’s had everything offered to him and takes no responsibility for his actions.

A few more things happened. George berating us for not having done simple tasks earlier but not actually offering any real help. My supervisor’s panic led to a last-minute shopping spree placed in the hands of someone else. We still managed to build an event that the kids loved and kept the parents happy. Some things fell through, but we survived.

At the end of the night, Bartleby tried to make nice again. I’m a forgiving person. Even people I don’t get along with I treat with the same respect of someone whom I call a friend. But Bartleby? After that threat? I’m done with Bartleby.

Afterwards, I hung out with the coworkers I couldn’t imagine losing but know that the inevitable is on the horizon. We enjoyed wings and laughs. And my thoughts slipped into dangerous territory.

As much as I say I don’t want to be in a relationship. As much as I tell myself that it’s not the right time, and that maybe I should wait it out until I’m at my most content. Even though I know that things might end up a disaster in the future. There’s this woman I like. And it scares me how much I like her. And I’m not sure if I mean the aforementioned things, or I’m just trying to convince myself those things are true. And I just might want to bring it up the conversation about my feelings again.

In the words of Hank Moody:


*I don’t understand why this never crossed my mind until now. I wrote a paper on Bartleby, the Scrivener in college because I was fascinated with the amount of laziness that character possessed.
**Yup, another literary reference, but I won’t mention to what book.

“All Roads Lead Home”

I have made you suffer, left you waiting in the rain.
I was chasing demons in the desert of my pain.
You know me better than the poison in my veins.
So, my love, remember when god forgets my name.

She’s girl that makes you believe that god is real. The sort that makes a monster feel human. So when I ask, “Why are you so soft and loveable?” I’m not just saying words. I’ve come to terms with this in my way. I write. I cry. And I sleep. I read books and I buy books. I bury myself in work and I spend time on Tumblr looking at cute pictures of cute things.

The open-ending once comforted me. When Bill Murray whispers into Scarlett Johansson’s ear, a well of emotion surfaces. All these years later, I spoiled it by reading what he said. “I have to be leaving, but I won’t let that come between us, OK?” When a series comes to a close, the open-ending is often used. Luke and Lorelai share a kiss in the rain. Rachel gets off the plane. Same goes for the closing of a season. The Governor isn’t dead and Woodbury comes to the prison. Hank Moody walks to Karen’s door and begins to knock, much like the ending of Sideways. Will she be there? Will she understand? Will all these years end with them, finally, together?

Open-endings comfort us. They help us write our own endings to the stories, the writer’s gift to the audience. Does Sid find Cassie? Does Cook kill Dr. Foster? Do the kids turn out alright?

We want the endings that make us happy, never the ones that make us suicidal. We force ourselves to believe Ross and Rachel are raising Emma happily. That nothing bad came between Luke and Lorelai. That Frasier is happy choosing Charlotte over San Fransisco. The only open-ended finale that set the bar high in reality was Seinfeld, as the show about nothing and everything ends with the characters sitting in a jail cell.

So what has me suddenly both manic and depressed? Inspiration? Caffeine? The fact that I’m listening to Beth Hart‘s song on a continuous loop?

And ex-girlfriend once said I live my life as a movie. An actor without an audience. Furthest from the truth. I’ve often said that life was too much like a TV or book series. Even at the ending, it’s not finite. It’s not even infinite. It’s just the ending of one slice of our existence. Open-ended for our creative responses.

Last night, a friend offered her ear and shoulder. I haven’t spoken to her in such a long time, not in that way. We managed a couple of comments on Facebook and a text here and there, but nothing grander than that. And it’s mostly my fault. Okay. It’s entirely my fault.

So will I take her up on the offer? Let’s see if the spinning top stops.



Wake up. Sleep. Wake up.


Life Summed Up


I gotta say, I hope my days with [redacted] are numbered. I dropped off a resume a company close to my house Wednesday. My brother works the Weslaco location and he let me know that the Edinburg one was looking for someone. Awesome, I need a job. I got the phone call this morning and did a quick little interview and scheduled a face-to-face Monday morning.

At least I have something to look forward to this weekend. I’m spending most it – I should say all of it – with Meester Binx, working the [redacted] table at various HEBs. Tomorrow we’re working the Weslaco location, Saturday we’ll be over at Mission and Sunday it’s back to San Juan – home of the MVEC cock block. I swear, if I don’t make at least one sign-up this week, I’m going to kill something small. But Monday’s my golden ticket, and hopefully my window to a real job, something I really need right now.

I’ve also been thinking about applying to other places, Barnes and Noble comes to mind. I really like books and I think working in a bookstore would cheer me up a bit. Not to mention, I’ll also know when new books are coming out. There’s also something of a discount, but that’s just a bonus. I’d love the job regardless.

Man, job hunting is less fun than book hunting but at least the outcome of the former doesn’t deplete my bank account like the latter does. After purchasing that new oven, I have a less than stellar balance at the moment. And the more I need to eat, the less I have in the end. I still owe people some money – people whose number I don’t have anymore so if you’re reading this (and I doubt you are) you should really consider calling me (but hopefully after I get a new job that actually pays me).

Yeah, that’s right [redacted] doesn’t pay me like most jobs would. They’re pay plan is solely based on something that’s out of our power. But whatever. I chose it because I thought I could handle it. And I can, for the most part. I just want something that’s a little more reliable and less problematic. A solid job. However, looking forward toward next Summer, I wonder how I’m going to manage the Roadrunners if I’m hired as  Clubhouse Manager again. I liked the job, but the hours won’t fit in with any work schedule. If I get my six minions, then I can manage it. If I don’t, then I haven’t a clue what the hell I’m going to do.

But all this comes back to one essential thing. Sleep. These last few nights I’ve been having a hard time finding that zone where I just slip into my dreams. And because this weekend means another sleepover at Meester Binx’s house, I’m afraid that I’m going to wind up killing someone. Like Meester Binx. I’m too pretty to go to prison. During the summer, all I did was sleep. I even slept at work (which was the only perk of the job, besides meeting a childhood hero – though he did turn out to be a complete and utter asshole). And it’s come to the point that even reading myself to sleep – yes, I know how that sounds – doesn’t work. My eyes are too tired to read, but my mind won’t shut off.

Speaking of reading, I picked up The Sinner by Tess Gerritsen – this is actually the second time I picked it up, but another book got in the way (possibly Hank Moody‘s God Hates Us All). I’m also reading – yes, reading – Bound by Ink, a tattoo magazine. Why a tattoo magazine? I don’t know, I just got the feeling that some of my characters need a little ink because I know I’m not going mark my skin.