Bored. BoredboredboredboredBORED. :::sigh:::
Just now, anyway. I don't understand it. I have a job that keeps me busy in the mornings. I just started a new book (Vanity Fair is really, really funny. Seriously. Don't give me that look.) I have a gym to go to, whenever I want. There's BILLIONS of people in my house. I have even had some friends call me. But geez...I'm home from work, I've read enough, I'm not working out until later, and I've returned my messages.
And still nothing to do. Nothing to do.
That's alright, though. I think everyone needs some time to just not do anything. My grandmom always says that she needs to keep doing things to keep from going senile. Maybe I need to not do things to keep from going crazy myself.
I'm still adjusting to the Valley. Not having too much trouble at home (aside from the afore-mentioned boredom...) but I think that's because I'm too available to be contrary. I've also picked up a few things from living in my old apartment that, when transferred over into the context of my family's house....well...make me look like a good kid. I like to make dinner. I don't like a sink full of dishes. I don't mind unloading the dishwasher, even. It takes less than three minutes. I was thinking about all this...and, well, compared with my fourteen-year-old self, one might conclude that the old Kat had been abducted by an elite, cleanly race of alien bodysnatchers. (Which makes for like, THE WORST summer blockbuster movie pitch ever. "A peaceful town in Southern California...children doing the unthinkable...transformed by the terrors of Windex...")
I think the thing that bothers me most, though, is something I can't quite put my finger on. Maybe it's because it highlights a few things that I've been apprehensive about myself. I'm not too fond of the reactions I get when I tell people that I've just graduated from school and that I'm home for the summer. It's the look...it's not pity...it's more like, "Well, we could have told you that. We could have told you before you went to that hippie school to get that meaningless degree that you'd end up right back here where you started, totally unqualified to do any useful work like auto repair." Aaaargh. I console myself by saying that I DO have plans. Sometimes I even mention that I'm starting grad. school in the fall. But somehow that makes it less comprehensible. It turns into, "Well, now there's just no hope for you. If you're going to twiddle away the next seven years of your life just reading books and not doing anything real like getting a real job and starting a family, well then we just wash our hands of you. And, by the way, you've brought this completely upon yourself."
:::sigh:::
It's probably not as bad as all of that. Maybe I just have too much time on my hands.
Just now, anyway. I don't understand it. I have a job that keeps me busy in the mornings. I just started a new book (Vanity Fair is really, really funny. Seriously. Don't give me that look.) I have a gym to go to, whenever I want. There's BILLIONS of people in my house. I have even had some friends call me. But geez...I'm home from work, I've read enough, I'm not working out until later, and I've returned my messages.
And still nothing to do. Nothing to do.
That's alright, though. I think everyone needs some time to just not do anything. My grandmom always says that she needs to keep doing things to keep from going senile. Maybe I need to not do things to keep from going crazy myself.
I'm still adjusting to the Valley. Not having too much trouble at home (aside from the afore-mentioned boredom...) but I think that's because I'm too available to be contrary. I've also picked up a few things from living in my old apartment that, when transferred over into the context of my family's house....well...make me look like a good kid. I like to make dinner. I don't like a sink full of dishes. I don't mind unloading the dishwasher, even. It takes less than three minutes. I was thinking about all this...and, well, compared with my fourteen-year-old self, one might conclude that the old Kat had been abducted by an elite, cleanly race of alien bodysnatchers. (Which makes for like, THE WORST summer blockbuster movie pitch ever. "A peaceful town in Southern California...children doing the unthinkable...transformed by the terrors of Windex...")
I think the thing that bothers me most, though, is something I can't quite put my finger on. Maybe it's because it highlights a few things that I've been apprehensive about myself. I'm not too fond of the reactions I get when I tell people that I've just graduated from school and that I'm home for the summer. It's the look...it's not pity...it's more like, "Well, we could have told you that. We could have told you before you went to that hippie school to get that meaningless degree that you'd end up right back here where you started, totally unqualified to do any useful work like auto repair." Aaaargh. I console myself by saying that I DO have plans. Sometimes I even mention that I'm starting grad. school in the fall. But somehow that makes it less comprehensible. It turns into, "Well, now there's just no hope for you. If you're going to twiddle away the next seven years of your life just reading books and not doing anything real like getting a real job and starting a family, well then we just wash our hands of you. And, by the way, you've brought this completely upon yourself."
:::sigh:::
It's probably not as bad as all of that. Maybe I just have too much time on my hands.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home