LaLa and I had our cable cut today. Oops!
I have three tests tomorrow. Yikes!
In a completely unrelated note, I offer something I wrote last night while sitting in the Starbucks in the Francis Marion just trying to pass the time between classes... It's not attached to anything else I've ever written, nor will it go anywhere in the future, this is it.
It took him a little over fifteen months to realize that he hated his job. Not a nagging feeling of unhappiness that floated in and out according to the day of the week and level of stress, not a disdain for the long hours and the tuna melt lunch breaks, but a deep-seated odium that boiled in his stomach and escaped through chapped lips much later than it had first started nagging from the back of his mind.
Until that fifteen month marker, he'd not realized himself capable of true hatred. He had fake hate: he "hated" soul patches and berets, he "hated" Starbucks, he really, really "hated" girls in Wayfarer sunglasses. But he hated his job. It surprised him and worried him, but mostly it led to an unbearable sense of dread as he realized his quarterly evaluation was approaching.
"You hate your job?" His father laughed and patted his shoulder as he sat through dinner that Sunday night. This made him hate his job more, his dad writing the whole thing off as if it were some lost youth soccer game.
"Yes." He stared firmly ahead, eyes fixed on the wall paper just over his mother's shoulder. "It sucks."
"You're so articulate, baby." His mother laughed along with his father now. He "hated" when his parents laughed at him.
Later that night, his best friend laughed too. On an adjacent barstool and right before ordering them both an Irish car bomb.
I'm sure I could move forward with this, but we know I won't.
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