Like a lot of people, since Covid I have lost any sense of time. Months pass like days, weeks pass like minutes, or the opposite sensation where a day feels like a year. I was commenting on a grocery store that had “just opened,” describing it as if it had been around for just a few weeks. THe place had opened in November. That’s 6 months ago. I don’t know what time it is, what day or week, except that I know when I have to be here, at this place, at this encroachingly-stupid engagement I seem to find difficult to extract myself from. Gone are the days of job hopping or knowing that your qualifications and skills will get you anywhere. I will likely end up delivering precious cargo to corporations and infividuals. Anything to get me back outdoors. Ambulatory. Non-inert. Very unhappy with my body now. I never hung up on body image but I know things have changed in the past 2 years. I feel it in the sex, although the sex has its external influences to make it complicated and stultifying. It was always that way. My routines, if I can call it that, are full body kissing, cunnilingus, brief fellatio, then penetration and mutual orgasm. Many times she comes earlier but it’s not a strict routine that is adhered to. I am not getting a portion of this routine at present and it makes me feel I should not even be there. But I also know my body has changed. Things still work but it’s not like it was just 2 years ago.
CHange of subject. Someone commented on my writing setup here. It’s funny to think I would have a writing anything here at this job but I have managed to let my own communications and mental meanderings enter into the workspace. Until the last couple of weeks it was strictly off limits for me, self-imposed, to write personal thoughts and nonsense while at the desk doing the job. But everyone else watches movies and does thier online shopping from here, why should I be so strict? I am quiet quitting yet again. GIving the job a bare minimum of my ability because why the hell not. Excelling and being awesome only gets you a whisper. Mistakes get you a roar. I fall into the debatably comfortable zone of knowing how hard it is to get fired from this place. I sometimes think I cross lines and let my mental machinations wander too far. But my intentions are never evil or even slightly nefarious. WHat the fuck am I even talking about?
Oh but the person who commented on this writing setup was funny. I use a Bluetooth keyboard and mouse and a screen magnifier that turns this Galaxy S22 Ultra into a big-screen laptop. It has a lot of limitations that prevent it from being a full laptop replacement but it’s janky and weird looking and I like it. The person commenting on this said that when he and others saw me typing into this crazy looking setup they knew I was of a different breed than the rest of the folks here. They knew I was going somewhere, and in fact I did advance a lot more quickly than most, though “advancement” in this case is refers only to atmosphere and not remuneration. The previous area where I worked was called “The Fucking Bronx” by my boss there. Noise and chatter were constant. The present work area is like an adult workplace. Typically it is much quieter. It feels like we are taken seriously, even if that is possibly not true.
What happens among current peers is that I find myself not laughing along with everyone else when they are absolutely hyperventilating and in tears laughing so hard over something in which I find no humor whatsoever. Sometimes I simply do not know what they are talking about or what they are saying. I’ll catch a word or two in between the chortling hysterics but the words mean nothing to me.
Even when I fully understand the context of the discussion I virtually always fail to find any humor in it, as everyone else is breaking down and convulsing in thick, throaty laughter that belies any appearance of happiness or joy. This is stress and anxiety exhaust.
