They say it’s your life, the first alarm. Then it goes off | like a ghetto pissed off girlfriend when I turned twenty seven years old. Disappointmen a wet Foxy Brown weave dancing |in a dry texas wenesday—neck jerking and shouting at the top of her lungs, waving her index finger in my face ending with a threatening palm against my forehead--telling me I aint shit!
Famous words to losers:
“Shit or get off the pot!”
“Move bitch, or get out the way.”
“Don’t be passive aggressive.”
“Just pull the damn trigger and shoot him in the head!”
“I am not trying to micro-mange you!
I always wondered how obese people let themselves get to looking like whales who staggered on the beach too sleep off their hangover from Vegas. I wondered if they avoided mirrors. I mean once a person gets over a hundred pound over weight an alarm must go off. But they keep eating. They eat until they are trapped in their lives. Always putting it off until tomorrow. Or maybe it was just an evil genius plans like in Comic Books. I hated superhero cartoons as a kid. I couldn’t understand why the villain could never win. They would spend the entire show plotting, get the superhero in the palm of their hands and start a monologue. My sadistic nine year old self would yell at the TV to just shoot Superman in the head. End it. Just walk up to him on a sunny day when he was dressed like Clark Kent and just shoot him in the head with a kryptonite bullet. Simple. No Sequels.
It was passive aggressiveness I understood why the villain could never win. It was passive aggressiveness why obese and addicts let their lives get so out of control. They never grabbed the bull by the horns. Or bullshit quotes like that. Passive–aggressive behavior, a personality trait, is passive, sometimes obstructionist resistance to following through with expectations in interpersonal or occupational situations. It is a personality trait marked by a pervasive pattern of negative attitudes and passive, usually disavowed resistance in interpersonal or occupational situations.
It can manifest itself as learned helplessness, procrastination, stubbornness, resentment, sullenness, or deliberate/repeated failure to accomplish requested tasks for which one is (often explicitly) responsible.
I was 34 years old, my real age. I had been thinking about making an exit from my insufferable job for over a year, but I keep telling myself after the convention or annual conference meeting or when they eventually fire me for being constantly, side-eye, deliberately late. I wanted them to do the dirty work. They never did. It was like working for the government. I didn’t want to be the bad guy. Yet, I knew my life was no longer making sense. Yet, I didn’t want to complain. The world was in a recession and I was thinking about quitting my job. I had nice things and cool gadgets and was still thinking about quitting my job. I knew I was ungrateful asshole.
I was waiting and finally my Boss gave me the ammunition I needed. The task was simple. I was to mail 353 letters. It was a project in which we had several unnecessary meetings to discuss. It was one letter; just stick it in the envelope and seal. A cockroach could’ve done it. Two days later, my boss rushes towards my desk and ask me if I had mailed the letters. I smiled confidently and told I accomplished the retarded task. Her eyes bulged. She said that I didn’t show her the envelopes; she needed to see if I put the letter in correctly. I rolled my eyes. I had been working there for almost two years, have mailed thousands of letters, and couldn’t understand her psycho spasm. She then looked me in the eyes, sorta apologizing with, and “I don’t want to micromanage you.”
My immediate thought, but you are bitch, you are micromanaging. I quit that job on my lunch break. No monologue. No explanation. I just shot her in the head. No two week notice. No passive aggressiveness.
But was I ready for real life and what real decisions bring? Was that obese person ready for that first walk around the block and not eating a whole cheesecake? Was the alcoholic ready for twenty eight days of sobriety? Was I ready to get a real life?
