My mom is an oxymoron to me.
She blames me for breaking everything any time something goes wrong with technology, and assumes I am incompetent and that I don't know what I'm doing to the point of ruining everything every time I touch a control. She does not trust me to maintain a computer on any wavelength.
She also demands of me and expects me to fix anything that is wrong with the computers, and expects me to know how to fix everything. She never attempts to fix the computer herself, she always forces me to work tec support even when the problem was not something I caused, and is not something I know how to fix.
See? Oxymoron!
Somehow she doesn't think I know anything about computers, yet demands I fix them every time they break. I'm baffled. She knows nothing about how technology works, yet believes all of her suggestions have merit and none of mine do.
I quit. This is insane.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Alex Gets a Job
Short story for Taylor, since she isn't getting Trap tonight.
...
beepbeepBEEPbeepbeepBEEPbeepbeepBEEP-
“Fffffuuuuuck.” Alex grumbled as he slammed a hand over his alarm clock. The cacophonous noise stopped, but his head was still ringing.
He stared at the ceiling and counted to ten, savoring his last few moments in his warm cocoon of quilts and blankets. At ten he cursed, groaned, and rolled out of bed to fall with a hard thunk on the floor.
Alex took a moment to remind himself that he needed this job, he couldn’t blow it off. He couldn’t go back to his old employment. Sure, some of his previous clients would still be willing to take him back, but the possible consequences weren’t worth it. Mortimer’s grinning face flashed through his mind, and Alex found the will somewhere in his body to pull himself up and take a shower.
“On your resume it says that for your last job you were self-employed, and the dates listed span five years, but you didn’t list an occupation. Is that a new way of saying ‘unemployed’?”
“Oh, no. Sorry, I was an escort. I must have missed a blank when I was filling in the paperwork.”
“Escort? Could you be more specific?”
“Prostitute.”
If she had been shocked she hadn’t shown it, and the rest of the interview had gone smoothly. The next day Alex had a call back telling him he got the job. It wasn’t much, minimum wage was a bitch, but it was something, and it would pay the bills. Alex was glad for once that he lived in a tiny craptastic studio apartment. Minimum wage wouldn’t have been able to support him with anything else.
So now he worked at a record store. Or, well, CD and iTunes-gift-card store. No one sold records any more. Not that he could blame them, the playback quality and storage capacity was far superior on modern technology, but there was something nostalgic about an old vinyl.
After getting ready Alex still had a few minutes to spare before he had to start his walk down to the bus stop, and he stopped for a second to stare at himself in the mirror.
“I’m not indy enough.” He told himself with a groan, and proceeded to rap his forehead against the sink, “God. I look like a poser. An emo poser. And my indie cred is five years out of date. Fuck. Maybe I am a poser.”
He took a deep breath. No one was going to eat him alive for not being indy enough, of all things. The worst he would get would be a scowl from suitably indy customers who were wondering why the hell such a mainstream bitch was working at an indie record store. And if they scowled, Alex could always scowl back and curse their grandmother in Japanese.
There was a silver lining to every cloud.
Alex forced down a deep breath, and then another, and continued to remind himself to keep breathing. There was no reason to be this nervous about going to work as a cashier and merchandise stocker for minimum wage. Except, maybe, this was his first real, law-abiding, tax-paying job. Ever.
He did his best to shrug off the anxiety and grabbed his coat, heading out the door to report for duty.
...
beepbeepBEEPbeepbeepBEEPbeepbeepBEEP-
“Fffffuuuuuck.” Alex grumbled as he slammed a hand over his alarm clock. The cacophonous noise stopped, but his head was still ringing.
He stared at the ceiling and counted to ten, savoring his last few moments in his warm cocoon of quilts and blankets. At ten he cursed, groaned, and rolled out of bed to fall with a hard thunk on the floor.
Alex took a moment to remind himself that he needed this job, he couldn’t blow it off. He couldn’t go back to his old employment. Sure, some of his previous clients would still be willing to take him back, but the possible consequences weren’t worth it. Mortimer’s grinning face flashed through his mind, and Alex found the will somewhere in his body to pull himself up and take a shower.
“On your resume it says that for your last job you were self-employed, and the dates listed span five years, but you didn’t list an occupation. Is that a new way of saying ‘unemployed’?”
“Oh, no. Sorry, I was an escort. I must have missed a blank when I was filling in the paperwork.”
“Escort? Could you be more specific?”
“Prostitute.”
If she had been shocked she hadn’t shown it, and the rest of the interview had gone smoothly. The next day Alex had a call back telling him he got the job. It wasn’t much, minimum wage was a bitch, but it was something, and it would pay the bills. Alex was glad for once that he lived in a tiny craptastic studio apartment. Minimum wage wouldn’t have been able to support him with anything else.
So now he worked at a record store. Or, well, CD and iTunes-gift-card store. No one sold records any more. Not that he could blame them, the playback quality and storage capacity was far superior on modern technology, but there was something nostalgic about an old vinyl.
After getting ready Alex still had a few minutes to spare before he had to start his walk down to the bus stop, and he stopped for a second to stare at himself in the mirror.
“I’m not indy enough.” He told himself with a groan, and proceeded to rap his forehead against the sink, “God. I look like a poser. An emo poser. And my indie cred is five years out of date. Fuck. Maybe I am a poser.”
He took a deep breath. No one was going to eat him alive for not being indy enough, of all things. The worst he would get would be a scowl from suitably indy customers who were wondering why the hell such a mainstream bitch was working at an indie record store. And if they scowled, Alex could always scowl back and curse their grandmother in Japanese.
There was a silver lining to every cloud.
Alex forced down a deep breath, and then another, and continued to remind himself to keep breathing. There was no reason to be this nervous about going to work as a cashier and merchandise stocker for minimum wage. Except, maybe, this was his first real, law-abiding, tax-paying job. Ever.
He did his best to shrug off the anxiety and grabbed his coat, heading out the door to report for duty.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Homophobia and Hate
I just finished watching The Laramie Project (movie version) with my mom, which prompted us to go into another conversation about my sexuality.
My mom is scared for me, and fear is a natural feeling for her to have for her daughter. We live in a small town, and I am queer. She is terrified for me, and wants me to be more quiet about it so as to not attract any more attention than necessary. Not because she doesn't love me and accept me, but because she is scared of the hate that she knows exists in the world.
She is scared that I don't understand the hate, and that I don't understand how the hate will wear on my soul.
I don't know how to tell her that she doesn't understand.
I can't live in the closet anymore, I can't protect myself with a lie. That is such an oxymoron. I would be trying to protect myself with a lie.
Living a lie wears on my soul, too.
Both actions grate away at my existence: if I hide who I am, I can not live with myself, but if i live who I am other people will hate me for it.
The thing is, if I am in the closet I am tortured and alone. If I am in the open, I will still be tortured, but there will be people who I can reach out to, people who will understand, accept, and share life with me.
I cannot torture myself alone anymore. I cannot live that lie.
For better of for worse, I will continue to live as I am, I will continue to be me, and I will refuse to let anyone else destroy my self image for it.
I do not choose to be queer. That is not a choice. My identity is not a choice. My choice is that I will no longer live in fear.
My mom is scared for me, and fear is a natural feeling for her to have for her daughter. We live in a small town, and I am queer. She is terrified for me, and wants me to be more quiet about it so as to not attract any more attention than necessary. Not because she doesn't love me and accept me, but because she is scared of the hate that she knows exists in the world.
She is scared that I don't understand the hate, and that I don't understand how the hate will wear on my soul.
I don't know how to tell her that she doesn't understand.
I can't live in the closet anymore, I can't protect myself with a lie. That is such an oxymoron. I would be trying to protect myself with a lie.
Living a lie wears on my soul, too.
Both actions grate away at my existence: if I hide who I am, I can not live with myself, but if i live who I am other people will hate me for it.
The thing is, if I am in the closet I am tortured and alone. If I am in the open, I will still be tortured, but there will be people who I can reach out to, people who will understand, accept, and share life with me.
I cannot torture myself alone anymore. I cannot live that lie.
For better of for worse, I will continue to live as I am, I will continue to be me, and I will refuse to let anyone else destroy my self image for it.
I do not choose to be queer. That is not a choice. My identity is not a choice. My choice is that I will no longer live in fear.
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