In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning

As I wrote to someone in my comments, tonight, I'm wholly ashamed to admit that I'm feeling frightfully sorry for myself.

I've been trying for months, to track down a decent paying, steady, full-time job--or, at the very least, a second part-time job...but...no luck. The cleaners hired one of the building's security guards over me, even tho' I was told, he had no previous experience, and I did. It all comes down to image--he had it, I don't. When it comes to outward appearances, I'm just plain screwed. They don't do Hollywood makeovers for people like me. They (tv talk shows, reality shows, charities, etc.) do it for frumpy middle-class housewives and business women. I can't even get a haircut, more than once or twice a year--and then, only if I'm lucky. Have to cut my own hair, and I'm afraid I do tend to make a dog's dinner of it.

And, you have to have a snazzy attitude, as well--you know, trendy. One thing no one will ever be able to accuse me of, is being trendy. Thank God. I'm not much of a fan of trendy, tho' I suppose it has it's uses. Let's face it, I'm the proverbial square peg in the round hole of life. Always have been. Not on purpose, mind, it's just in my natural make up, part of my human nature.

Some people--teens, adults, work hard at trying to be "different." Which doesn't make much sense to me--because being "different" for real? It's not a hell of a lot of fun. It's painful and it's isolating and it's sometimes, excruciatingly lonely.

You can try to be different--get a tattoo, dye your hair purple, act like a gangsta', wear odd or ultra-designer clothing, listen to different music or whatever---but, you're only trying. The truth is, for most people, being different, is just pretend...an escape. Which is fine...but it's not the genuine article. In point of fact, you are either born different, or you're not. Trust me. It's like, I might suppose, being gay. I'm sure most gay folks will tell you that you just don't wake up some morning and say, "Oh, I'm tired of being heterosexual, I think I'll be queer from now on." Well, being different for real, it's the same exact thing. You either are born--or develop that way, or, you're a pretender. I'm different for real, and mostly, I'd give anything to be even relatively normal.

I'd love to know what it's like to go out with friends, after work or on weekends. I'd love to know what it's like to date, to have someone truly want me around him--because I'm me, not because he's merely lonely, or wants to brag to his ex that he's dating, or wants (and will never get) an easy (pardon me) lay. I'd love to know what it's like to have some friends to dinner, or have someone celebrate the holdays/birthday with me..something that is no longer part of my life, and I miss dearly. Go shopping with the girls, visit a museum or something--or just sit and talk over coffee, or go walking together...I don't have that, seldom have--tho' I've treasured the few moments spent with friends, for years and years. And, I'm not really complaining about this--I'd come to accept this, because I do know what I am, who I am. And this is my life. It's just the way it is. Believe me, if I knew how to change it, I would...but, this is me. My life.

I suppose I could describe myself, in the negative sense, as perverse, stubborn, and sometimes, downright obstinate. Sometimes, these things serve me well, more often than not, they put me outside the circles of life--like the starving wino, looking through the cheery restaurant window and the people dining on food, oblivious to me, I am often left watching other people going out with each other to bars, concerts and parties. I rarely get asked, and don't reckon I ever will.

So, I'm in a self-hate and loathing mode, tonight. Sorry. I can't help it, I just am. I don't like myself, I don't like who I am. And, I positively hate my life, my job and all it entails...at least for tonight.

My fellow Americans were horrible to me tonight! Two people swore at me and screamed and ranted--because I accidentally mis-pronounced their last name! One person ranted and cussed because I'd called a wrong number, one ranted and cussed me because she hated her magazine that she got...and on and on it went--and, I made not a single sale. This hasn't helped my present mood--in fact, I'm sincerely glad I don't own a gun, rope or sleeping pills. I'm sorry. But, I do feel a severe bout of depression coming on. Can't help it. Just have to deal with it, as best I can.

What do I dream about? Not owning a horse, or a pick up truck, not having a home of my own, or a family of my own, or being around friends, not writing for a living, or moving to the UK, not having wads of cash in the bank, or going on holiday, or living in the country, or a job where I'm genuinely wanted and needed...none of these things.

I dream of a stable life. Knowing I can pay the rent and bills, and have enough to eat and do my laundry, week in, week out, having the same pay cheque coming in each week, steady work hours all the time--even if the scedule is crazy, I don't care about scheduling overmuch--, I mean, but the same approx. pay cheque every week. I'd really like that. I'd like...stability. That's what I dream of.