So why am I a cynical, art-damaged, music-obsessed self-loathing loner who writes compulsively dark poetry in private while, in everyday interactions, uses non-stop sarcasm and humor to keep everyone at arm's length?
Is this my parents' fault? Am I still rebelling against them? Against the banality and emptiness of our internet-based consumer society?
Do I truly enjoy the music of the Crucifucks and Harmonia, the art of Yves Tanguy, the Parker novels by Richard Stark, or am I just relentlessly trying to prove my singularity in a relentlessly homogenized and conformist world?
Oddly enough, I have a job where I interact with about 100 different co-workers everyday in a highly structured environment. I'm a low-level supervisor, and I excel at my job. Seriously. I'm the cat's ass. About 30 hours of every work week, tho, is spent, trying to figure out how to get the hell out of there. I'm pretty sure I can feel my soul dying by degrees as I sit at my desk.
On the other hand, my paycheck provides me with a place to live, and I'm not starving. That shit definitely counts for something.
And I have my mp3 player, so I can spend a large part of each day smiling and nodding at people who think I can actually hear what they're saying. Very entertaining.
Maybe alcohol holds the solution.....
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