O, do not forsake me, my indolent friends
O, do not forsake me though you know I must spend
All my darkest hours talking like this
For I am one thousand years old
--- They Might Be Giants
Yesterday was the official birthday of myself, the mind behind Off Colfax. And, of course, things have been going horribly wrong for the last two weeks in preparation for this alledgedly blessed celebration of mine. For one thing, my monitor decided to blow up on me, just as I was getting ready to send off my resume to a much better place than the hellhole I work in now. Before that, I'd gotten two write-ups in four days, neither of which I could've avoided, which sparked the sudden desire to start sending out resumes again. And before that, my usual Pre-Birthday Depression kicks in, making me essentially miserable for the entire month, which probably laid the foundation for getting written up twice in quick succession.
I have rarely had a good birthday. In fact, in my 29 (again) years, I think I've had exactly two memorable ones, and the rest simply fade off into the distant haze of Yet Another Day Land. And, as such, just as soon as Hallowe'en fades into the past, I can pretty much expect that crushing despair will come soon. I don't know why I can't seem to shake this off, nor do I know how to completely avoid it, as it generally begins while laying in bed waiting for sleep to finally come. One minute, I'll be laying there peacefully with a cat curled up in my arms. And the next, WHAM-O!!! my cat keeps glowering at me for getting her fur all soaking wet.
[And yes, folks, I know I probably need help. You don't need to tell me that. And yes folks, I know I need Jesus. You don't need to tell me that either. Only problems are that a) I don't have the spare cash lying around to even get a used monitor from Craigslist and b) I have a severe spiritual and philosophical disagreement with most Christian sects, with the sole exception being the Unitarians. Oh, sorry. Christianity doesn't have sects. Christianity has organized philosophical niches, many in direct philosophical divergence with many other available niches. Only other religions have sects.]
But in the area of this blog, the main problem has been with Aggregate Levels of Sucktitude. Most of the time, I think about a topic and reach for the nearest keyboard to shove the stream of consciousness directly into clean text. Yet, at least 10 times over the last two weeks, I've started up a draft on something, like the white phosphorous mess or the myth of the Democratic base or the further developments on the WGIG or just random comments about life in general. And each of those times, the second I hit the Preview button, I realize that everything I've typed in over the last few hours or so happens to be absolutely pathetic. So I try to change words around, use different paragraphs to blockquote, rewrite; all to reverse the climb of the Aggregate Levels of Sucktitude rating. Finally I just give up on the thing and delete it and, with the self-confidence of whale crap at the bottom of the Puerto Rico Trench, wonder if Atrios had ever had days like this. Or Kos. Or Luis. Or the myriad of Andrews. Or the big three Johns. Or the two Coles.
But the evil B-day has past me by, with the usual real-life Aggregate Levels of Sucktitude that I've become used to over the years, and the Pre-Birthday Depression has (mostly) gone to rest up for next year's torture session. So, at least once I can find a monitor for cheap and scrape together the odd funding for it by selling plasma on my day off, I'll be back to my highly long-winded ways on random topics that either only I think about or I care enough to comment on.
And before you ask, I'm 29. And I've been 29 for quite a few years, thank you very much. On the last day of my first run-through of 29, I swore that I would remain that age until I finally got it done right. And, at the rate I've been going, that'll be around the time for me to stay 39 for a full ten years.