Friday, June 7, 2013

Be careful about complaining (morning mood)

Be careful about complaining; it totally lowers your vibration. These words may be true but they don’t feel like useful advice, not this early in the morning anyway, not without medication to wash them down with. Coffee will have to suffice. There are no legal or illegal substances around that would have any significant effect on my mood.

Medication, glorious medication, the legal or illegal kind, prescription or non-prescription, or homeopathic remedies that don’t really work except for having some sort of placebo effect. There’s nothing wrong with a placebo effect as such, it is, in effect, as effective as anything else. Anything that works is effective. We’re not in the truth business, us humans, we’re in the business of fooling ourselves in order to make life bearable. Some of us are quite good at it. I’m not even out the door and it’s already started.

I shake my head to scramble my thoughts and try to catch a better vibe, a more positive vibe, a vibe that will raise my vibration and carry me out of the house, and to work with a more positive can-do frame of mind.

Shake, shake, shake, like a wet dog, drowning anyone standing too close with bad vibrations. Thank goodness I’m alone or else I fear I would affect the world negatively.

It’s hard to muster up enough positive adjectives to describe life, let alone work, but as I brush my teeth with that new toothpaste that’s supposed to whiten teeth noticeably in two weeks, I ponder my fear of becoming like a Stephanie Meyer novel where everything is drowning in adjectives and leaves nothing to the imagination. Leaving nothing to the imagination removes doubt. It must be great to live and exist somewhere where everything is drowning in adjectives and nothing is left to the imagination.

What my life lacks is adjectives, obviously, because I question everything. I need more adjectives. I ought to read Stephanie Meyer every now and then, or maybe even Fifty Shades of Grey. Maybe I would even get off on Fifty Shades of Grey, unless of course it makes me vomit first, how will I know unless I try? I know because I opened it once and looked in it, and was horrified…

My teeth are not whiter and it has taken two weeks of vigorous brushing with that fucking toothpaste to achieve nothing. Toothpaste makes false promises just like people, I note feeling particularly stabby for a moment, and that’s the story of my life. It wasn’t that people made false promises; it’s life that’s the culprit. I swallowed the fairy-tale hook, line and sinker back in my teens and now, with nothing to show for it, I am sometimes very dissatisfied, very dissatisfied indded, with my life.

High heels.

Tight dress.

Hair tied up in a bun.

Make up, carefully applied.

Middle-aged?

Beautiful for my age?

Unsure? Certainly!

Too many adjectives, just like a Stephanie Meyer novel or Fifty Shades of Grey. Fuck you, but not in the Fifty Shades of Grey way. Fuck you in the get the hell away from me way.

A quick look at the time reveals that there’s enough time for another cup of coffee. My cup is twice the size of a normal mug; a Christmas gift from someone who knows I love coffee. The ritual of making coffee and filling the cup with coffee and froth milk, and dusting it with chocolate powder, is like a prayer and is possibly the only thing I find real comfort in nowadays. I pet the cat that has taken up his position on the kitchen stool next to me. It’s all part of the ritual. Rituals are habits. Habits make you feel safe. Following habits make you feel like everything is going to be OK.

I sit down with my coffee and drink it slowly. There’s only the sound of the fan on the gas heater whirring. The aroma of good coffee fills the warm room and I feel comfortable even though it feels more appropriate for me to wear a pyjamas and woolly socks, not this corporate meat-puppet garb I’m squeezed into. High-heels are for strippers, not real women.

It’s time to leave. It’s time to get in the car, pull out of the driveway and enter the rat race. The daily commute, there should be an antidote to it. It makes people angry. It makes me angry. It is such a monumental waste of time. One could surely use time more effectively than sitting in traffic. There must be a way to streamline the process. All processes can be streamlined to improve efficiency and the bottom line; all processes can be streamlined except for the process of commuting to work. Beam me up, Scotty! It’s taking too long and I’m getting bored. Boredom leads to thinking and thinking leads to dissidence. I must not think. Thinking is futile. It makes everyone unhappy when I do but worst of all it exposes the utter uselessness of what I’m doing with my life. I should be discovering a cure for a complicated and rare disease, not cancer though, it’s too much of a cliché, or I should be Mother Teresa, except, being Mother Teresa has already been done. I would have to another mother, a motherfucker; I would have to fuck a mother, motherfucker.

Is it possible to go insane from just thinking? Can you think yourself into insanity? The answer must be yes! It’s how it happens. You let your thoughts lose until they end up feral and take a turn for the worse. They pick up some sort of diseased vibe along the way and before you know it you’re in a strait-jacket surrounded by people in white coats talking to you like you’re a child. Or, you’re sitting stuck in traffic in your meat-puppet suit and high-heels on the way to a meeting with people you suspect are not human at all. You begin to suspect you’re part of some cruel experiment, in other words, you’re going insane because you’ve let your thoughts run feral. It’s your own fucking fault, you failed to take responsibility, and now you’re paying for it and you’ve been exposed as the weak link. Maybe it’s better that way. You can relax now. Someone else is in charge of your life while you’re in that strait-jacket. All that’s expected of you now is that you cooperate. It’s very much like working in a corporation, except you’re wearing a strait-jacket and not a meat-puppet suit; same diff though, no?

Still, one mustn’t complain; it totally lowers your vibration. Fucking clichés!

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