Trying to get things right

I don't exactly hate being optimistic, but I don't see myself being one. It's weird being the bringer of positive angles to those who need it the most, much like what I did to Valerie today. It's weirder considering I myself need more of these positive angles than, probably, anybody else I know, after getting nothing with the risks and failing when nothing's been done. But, believe it or not, I've been giving myself that same dose of misplaced positivity - and I don't notice it most of the time.

For the past few weeks, the three have left for lunch together more frequently. It's become a daily habit - where have the packed lunches gone? - and it's forced me to delay my lunch until, at the earliest, one in the afternoon. I just don't like the idea of bumping into them; I'm that bent on skirting a nyaha kind of event. Sometimes I wait longer than usual and end up languishing on my desk in hunger for an hour, by which time I decide to go down using the stairs rather than the elevator.

What's more common, however, is them buying fastfood - I can smell wet burgers where I am - and me using the time to think of surprisingly positive work-related stuff. Earlier, I planned on holding off an episode preview until after lunch, since I still had to gather my blogging nature to write my thoughts on the last episode. With me grounded at my desk, I decided, oh, what the heck, I'll just do it now. Within twenty minutes, I was finished, with extra time to think about where to go to lunch, since I like to have things all planned out.

Add to that the smaller things - I can go to the toilet without passing them by and sensing apathy - and I actually feel good for myself. There's preoccupation with work, and there's the small things that keep you giddy for a few hours, at the most. And then there's finishing something you've been working on for weeks. If I held off that preview today, I'd probably be stuck with half a season of CSI to trawl for murders. I'm writing this entry instead, with that sense of achievement creeping in, at least until reality strikes.

Last week's episode of CSI: NY had Katherine McPhee appear in only ten minutes or so, as a girl who - something I've relearned from work: spoiler alert! - thought the law failed her and proceeded to kill her stalker. I was particularly struck, I'll admit, but more because the people who take the law in their hands are portrayed as vigilantes, not necessarily the good guys, or those who need help the most.

"Marshall Baxter was the victim and Dana Melton was the suspect," I wrote. "But that’s the murder case: on another perspective, Marshall was the suspect and Dana, the victim."

I say I've moved on from the subtle antics of the three who sit behind me, but to be honest, I still - still! - think of them once in a while. It's the usual stuff, really. Do they talk about me when they walk to some restaurant and eat, and have fun, and laugh? Derisively, nonchalantly, whatever-ly? Sometimes I wonder whether it's my fault, and that's despite me having convinced anyone who's willing to listen that it isn't.

I was, after all, quite engrossed in my work, taking pride in whatever I write that gets good comments from the readers. I wasn't the type to reach out to them and invite them to lunch - initially it was intimidating, in the middle it was becoming an option, and at the end it was just not worth it. Lately, I've tried everything just to disassociate myself with them - I've never showed up to any coworker on important lines of communications, just to prevent myself from feeling bad when I see those official lines become an avenue for chit-chat. Perhaps I thought of work as just work - refute me by talking about my slight unaddressed fixation to the third - or perhaps I just wanted to get things done.

And, in the end, I probably looked aloof, someone who's not willing to share jokes or make an effort to relate, someone who's not capable of lightening up when needed.

True, perhaps. But nobody asked me the right questions, nobody cared when I stumbled and struggled with connecting to idle television-related talk - I write about television, but I don't watch that many shows, I'll insist - nobody cared to invite me again, nobody attempted to make me feel welcome, and when I decided to just do what I came here to do in the first place, they decided to say I'm the crazy guy, and insult me with every opportunity. Or I'm just paranoid. Or it's the lack of actual person-to-person conversation that gets to me.

Right now, I couldn't care less. It's hard imagining myself ever integrating to the workplace - and I've been here for forty-two weeks! - and it's harder imagining myself getting it right, for once. While I stumble with relationships and continue to think I'm a better writer than any of them, there's this blame game that I resort to, just to feel safe. With every gamble, I realize it's more complicated than I've always thought - in the words of Jim Brass, "one lie wrapped in another" - and it becomes more and more useless.

Things remain unresolved. I, for one, am still fixated, but who gives a damn if she hates me for that?

And your responses...


Or maybe they just don't like you, and that's not really their fault? Don't you guys, like, undergo training or something? Or are you from different batches?


Anonymous Anonymous4/14/2009     

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