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I powered on my computer and waited impatiently for the login screen to appear. The desktop was running slower than it generally does, which cost me a few minutes before I was able to clock-in, but I was a half-an-hour early so it's not like it mattered. The Cincinnati skyscrapers loomed in the distance, catching the orange light of the sunrise which gave them a drastic contrast against the thick, grey clouds that retreated into the morning behind them.
It's the start of another work week at Southwest.
Much of the time, I'm not actually working when I'm at the office. I get enough done so that nobody asks any questions about my production, but more often than not, when I appear to be diligently typing figures into a valuation, I'm actually writing something for myself. When I appear to be deeply involved in an investigation that will hopefully yield some comparable sales to be used, I'm probably reading something completely unrelated to work altogether. If anybody knows, they obviously don't care. I get about thirty valuations done a day, which I'm told is a lot, all the while keeping my mind occupied with other things, listening to music and occasionally wandering off just so that I can look at something that isn't a flat-screen monitor for a moment. Some times I'll e-mail my friend Melissa, usually only if I find something funny about a borrower's name, or if the name of the town I'm working on in North Carolina is something perverted like Climax or Cumming (both of those are real towns, though I can't remember which states they're in).
I do enjoy my job, and I want to succeed at it. Though I do goof off, I am sure to not allow myself to slack so far that my work actually suffers. I think that if I were to completely cut myself off from any and all distractions, that my work wouldn't really improve as I would become frustrated much more often, which, in turn, would make me more likely to half-ass a valuation in order to get it out of my queue.
Maybe I'm just making excuses so that I can keep writing whatever this is that I'm writing at the moment.
Anyway, it was an eventful, drunken weekend. I look back on it fondly, but it also has brought something kind of serious to my attention: I have to stop hanging around my buddy Kevin when we go out to bars. Unless I am the only boy my age in the room, girls almost never notice me. I must have a way of blending into my surroundings. I don't do it intentionally; more than anything else, I want women to take notice of my presence, and to be interested. But when Kevin's around, everything gets worse. The man is over six feet tall, has black hair and dark skin, is in good shape, and man, all of the ladies just lose their shit over him. He never acts on anything, which somehow makes it all the more frustrating, but regardless of his complacency, women absolutely fawn over him. I hate that I have jealousy issues at all, but what can I do? Even Emily, the one-time love of my life, told me point blank, to my fucking face, that Kevin is better looking than I am. I don't know if you've ever experienced that, having the girl that you loved more than anything or anyone else tell you that one of your best friends is more attractive to her than you, but I can tell you from my own firsthand experience that it will fucking ruin you, at least for a while. Hell, it seems like it partially ruined me for good; I can't seem to shake the thought of it no matter what, and even now, it's proving to be completely true.
Do you think I sound shallow, talking exclusively about looks and outer-appearances rather than a person's personality or intelligence? You may not believe me, but these are beliefs that I have acquired and learned quite recently. I mean, I've always been told by friends and family that I'm a really handsome, attractive guy. But people that are close to you certainly aren't going to say that you're ugly as sin, nor will they let it slip that you're simply average unless you beat it out of them. So it must be true then, that my looks are just not good enough to stand out in a crowd, and therefore, I am the constant, accidental chameleon, blurring into the muddled colors of the walls that I lean against.
And here I thought that I'd managed to improve myself enough to warrant a few admiring glances from across the room. But I suppose not. And clearly, that means that I need to acquire fame and fortune as soon as possible. I mean shit, I already have an office job, a decent wardrobe and a nice car, and yet I still cannot get any women to appreciate me on a shallow level, which is the ONLY LEVEL that seems to fucking matter at this point. Girls will let me know man, they will fucking let me know when they aren't interested, and it's always just because I don't look how they'd like me to look. I'm always myself, I'm always kind, I'm never creepy and I never come on too strong. I'm just not good enough to be considered, and as far as I can gather, it's just because of the fact that I don't stand out.
But vast wealth and my name on a Wikipedia page would earn me some admiration no matter what, wouldn't it? Sure, much of it would be completely false or based upon something unstable and ultimately fake, but what does it matter? I'd take it where I could get it, and move on, just like everyone else seems so able to do even now. Maybe if I ever get around to writing my book, I'll get lucky and it'll sell. Then I'll be a published writer, and people will have to take notice of me for something. Women would flock to me because of my "depth" and my "talent" despite the fact that I'm pretty sure Larry the Cable Guy had a best selling autobiography out a while back. Then, afterwards, I can focus on releasing my poetry and continue working on other books. Life will good and complete, and I may, finally and at long last, feel this "contentment" I've heard so much about recently.
On the flip side, if my life were to end tomorrow and I saw it coming somehow, I think I'd be ready. I'd be more than ready; I'd welcome it with open arms and I would happily say goodbye to my friends and family, as this death that comes to embrace me was not a choice that I have made, but rather a choice the fates have made for me. And I'm sure they would be sad, and probably a bit confused by my reaction to my own impending doom, but whatever. Regardless of the cause or any plausible solutions, being constantly unhappy for years is really, really difficult. Thoughts of suicide aside, I still fear death somehow. The thought of being struck by lightning while caught in a terrible storm is oddly terrifying to me some times, despite the unlikelihood.
I think it's clear that I know nothing about what I want in this life.
Well, no. I want love.
It's all very confusing.
