What have I learned about my fascinating self after 2.5 months at my first full-time job in 20 years?

I don’t know. Is it even worth asking? I knew I’d be good at this job, and I am. I remember one lifer, when asked, saying that she did not feel totally comfortable in this role until about 6 months in. 

That seemed reasonable to me when she said it, and maybe I’m being premature in congratulating myself. But I am good at this.

I would think my attitude about it differs from most others who work there. A key distinction is that, unlike pretty much anyone there, I take the job home with me, both mentally and physically. I love scanning the notes later and reliving the day, every one an epic in some way. The randomness exhilarates but also frustrates.

One thing I guess I knew already is that the drinking, while it does not impact my job, does swallow any chance I have of having a life outside of work. I felt it happening last night. An email from someone offering to do me a huge favor had me responding articulately and with direction.

But then I felt the stiff IPA beers wash all that away. Further comments in the email Iwas sending were not made. I sent the email before getting drunk and angry. A wise move considering there was really no room or reason for anger in this context.

Try telling that to a drunk.

I had sex with a woman on Saturday. That much I remember but there may have been drugs involved because almost everything else is a blur, if not an outright vanishment. I don’t know what a male version of rufis would be or why anyone would come after a middle aged schlub like me in that manner. I mean, why would anyone think they need to drug me to get me to bone them?

It was a strange arrangement. She seemed to hate me but guided me to her home in Cypress Hills, near the Cemetery I visited some time in the last 6 or 7 months.

Even after I came into her mouth and she later climaxed I only ever felt like she did not really want me there. There was conversation but I remember none of it. Was I just scared, for some reason? 

I know I can get nervous as hell when sex is anticipated, or planned ahead of time. Even when I’ve been in LTRs the ttalk of “how good it’s going to be” could send a lead brick down my gut.

It reminds me, however, that with some notable exceptions I rarely remember the sex. I remember certain incidents that few could ever forget. But for the most part the women I’ve known in that way don’t have anything to worry about should memory holes become digital virtual reality multimedia reels and everything I have on them comes pornographically bursting forth.

The sexes I remember best are, not surprisingly, the ones recorded on video, or which I wrote about soon after they happened. But wirth the latter I find that even there, re-reading those accounts does little to fully impress into my mind the full account of who did what, how it felt, or if it was even good for her.

As for Saturday I must have pounded her pretty hard, with the soreness across my mid-region. First sex since November. If there were drugs it might explain why I felt like complete and utter pigshit the next day. She seems to have given me a little bit of a cold, which didn’t help. But the Monday at work was pretty awful for me.

What does this have to do with reflections on my job? Not a whole lot, though the woman on Saturday had a tangential connection to the workplace.

What I need to do with the balance of this day is walk. Walk the walk, drink the drink, sleep the sleep. Also have to finish taxes, which is always an all-day thing. This could be the last gasp for the magical accountant who made my work-at-home lifestyle possible. Whatever may come of this current job I do not ever want to go back to working from home again, not full time at least. I like being among people, in a place, being part of something.

With the summer I’m sure I’ll appreciate the free a/c. I don’t think I ran a/c more than an hour last summer. But then I enjoy a good sweat. My body weeps.

I was at the piano earlier. FOr a while it feels like I’ve never touched the instrument. Then it comes back. The muscle memory. There is a Scriabin etude that makes my brain want to eat itself and spit itself out. It has en E double-sharp, ferchrissake. It’s not as thick as the Alkan fugue I did, with its triple sharp, but still, pretty knotty stuff, especially for first thing in the morning.

I can play it, it’s just not one of those trifles you can toss off after not playing it for a long time.

A friend has offered a huge favor by getting my Payphone Radio on the Android app store. I warned him upfront: Just so you do everything. If I see another line of computer code I’m going to hyperventilate. 

I had to do some trifling code but still, I can’t look at that shit anymore. 

Then I am confronted with my own effluvious, relentless of output. Endless hours of audio, acres of texr, photos to drown in. And lately I’m even into video, which is its own mountain of earth to die under.

I ampresently  at a coffee shop. I don’t usually care too much but this coffee is horrible. Tastes like pipe. Tastes like the pigshit in my bloodstream, the ooze of animal feces dripping and drooling from my lips, landing on my fingers and working its way into the keys as I type, filling my words ever more with eternally growing waste. It sputters in my throat, oozes from my ears, even makes my testicles burst in triumph.

I should go back to Scriabin. After the walk. Walk the walk, I say to me.