John Lennon and the season that never ends

I had these two great master plans to write at various points today. Early in the morning — around 4:00 AM — I was watching a re-run of the Duke-Wisconsin game on YouTube, and thought it would be a swell idea to create an article titled something along the lines of Why This Is The Best Duke Team Since 2001, or whatever. Handcuffed with only two cigarettes, I quickly rationalized just how moot that idea was… I need at least half a pack to get serious with a keyboard in front of me.

So I opted to go to sleep.

On my way to work (this was about 3:30 PM), I was thinking about the blockbuster baseball trade unfolding between the Rays and Padres — and later the Nationals — but then I understood that I had eight hours of work in front of me and all the abstract juices flowing at that specific time would soon dissolve.

Now that I’m home and it’s 2:34 AM, I’m pooped out on both of these ideas. I don’t feel like searching for all the advanced basketball stats I want to use to help generate my argument for Duke, and, sadly, I don’t know enough about the prospects trading uniforms to analyze the three-team MLB trade, even if the main point would have been TAMPA BAY WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING.

So, this is Christmas.

I’m not actually listening to this right now, for the record. 808s and Heartbreak has been calling my name recently.

Aside my best friend, I’ve never told anyone this: the reason I quit my first job, back when I did accounting, was because of a girl. It was because of a girl from a long time ago, even long before the time I quit that job. I’m not proud to say it, but I’m saying it.

It was March, in 2012. I can’t believe it’s almost been three years ago. I remember where I was at the time, standing in front of a computer, stapling 398s from the DMV onto invoice sheets to send to new and used car dealers. Inside my head was a plague, something compelling me to act, just for the sake of finally showing that I’m a real person. Occasionally I need credit for not being a robot. I want to be taken seriously.

So it was right there… The knots in my stomach… the voice in my head that wouldn’t leave. I was familiar with the knots, the voice; after all I’d spent the better part of three full years using alcohol and drugs to escape me from a reality I wanted no part of. It was right there, standing right there, when I decided enough was enough. Eric Reining, the lonely nomad patrolling this life on a whim with no regard for the repercussions.

But I let it breathe for several hours.

At the end of the day I was in a different part of the office, this time sitting in front of a computer. It was a Thursday, the busiest day of the week for business, and, like I was wont to do, I was going as fast as I could to input the data entry so I could get home at a reasonable time. The woman sitting next to me was texting, laughing at her texts, bullshitting her work, making me do the lion’s share.

It was not uncommon, but this was my moment.

For no reason whatsoever, I took the watered-down large cup of Bakers coke I had in front of me, threw it to the floor in disgust, and walked out. That was the last time I stepped foot in that office.

On the ride home my boss called me a couple times, but I ignored them. The following morning I called her back, apologized for walking out but not for the reason I walked out. She defended her employee because she is blind to her workers texting and blah blah blah. I needed a change, anyway.

What no one knows is the texting had nothing to do with it. Shit, I would text, too, but usually only when my work was complete and there was nothing to do. That woman texting was just the straw that broke the camel’s back… to use a cliche. I was frustrated by a girl who I couldn’t reach, who wouldn’t talk to me, whose mere existence without me killed me.

Through my self-therapy, I’ve probably spent close to 200 hours writing her letters that I never had any intention of sending, and another 20 letters that I did send. It sounds so dramatic, but I can’t even remember what a good night’s sleep feels like. I’ve spent countless nights lying there awake thinking about her. Eventually I make sense of it to myself, decide I had my time and that time meant something, and get to sleep.

But by the next morning I’d forget everything I made sense of and do it all over again. My stomach was in perpetual knots.

Now I don’t feel it as often, but since I’m comfortable writing this I know I’ll feel them soon. My life situation is lightyears better than it was even a year ago, certainly two and three and four and five years ago. I’m in a good place.

I don’t know, man.

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