Eleven days of half-solitude

I definitely need this holiday.

Tomorrow's my last day at work, for this year, at least. Shame it couldn't be the last one ever. As much as my new supervisor, and my parents, insist that I have to stay for a year to look good, I can't wait for the day when I'll think of how to write my resignation letter, or the drama that follows afterwards. But this is the workplace. Drama only happens within the television screen, or in school, where nobody really cares about what you do.

People are actually surprised to hear that I'll have a full day tomorrow, although that argument's pretty moot. The set-up with the folks at Seattle have changed, which means I'm working as part of an autonomous team, assigned to write about shows that have yet to air, so I'm literally lounging on the last six hours of my shift, which induces a lot of guilt. For the past few days, I've been feeling lazy, too. I've always forced myself not to be lazy, but all of a sudden I have so much space. Still, it's the worst one could feel, especially with the obligations.

In recent years, I've not been excited over Christmas. It's been the same, really, more so if you're socially awkward like me - someone who chooses to think people think a certain way rather than figure it out for himself - with the lack of invitations for outings and parties and anything else. Just get some sleep, get your gifts, and go home. All of a sudden I'm thrust into a world where everybody expects you to know things. I've always wanted to get something done, but obviously I haven't, and as much as people compel you to do so, you're left feeling empty. Bah, never mind.

So, from 18.00 tomorrow, I'm outta here. I'll go home, go elsewhere, get stuffed and get loaded, get home and get some sleep, and get rumbled to the sampled sounds of Planet Telex. So begins eleven days of getting away from all of those things that you can't really do, even if people expect you to be very good at it.

I actually gave Christmas presents today. The two girls got their share of cookies, and as far as I am concerned, that's how it'll end, because there's nothing coming after anyway. Despite your efforts at being nice, it seems that nothing's good enough for them. You'll still be far away and they'll never count you, and everybody will say that it's your fault, it's your fault, it's your frigging fault why you're lonely and depressed and all. And it's an obligation, nothing more.

As much as I want to be subtly autonomous, I can't help but look forward to the holiday. I'll feel bound and restricted, by geography and initiative and actual stress, but nothing beats catching up on sleep. And doing things that you've always wanted to do. And not having to mind whether you're being considered for anything that's not a psychological whipping. And not having to think whether you're being discreet, despite all the words that you've already said, and all the pride you've hesitated to let go of. I'm tired of feeling potential rejection - note that - mixed with actual rejection, with I'm-just-forced-to-do-this thought bubbles that literally form at every available opportunity.

Even though I really want to get something done, I guess I'm just not made for it. Eleven days out must work very well for me. Besides, if I don't have a chance, I might as well not do anything. Oh, sleep, I missed you.

And your responses...

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