I has angst.

For various reasons I am far too lazy to type out on my phone, I am experiencing a great deal of angst. Normally I would be all mysterious and poetic and probably bust out some kind of obscure pop culture reference, but seriously? Fuck and shit and piss and maybe even fuck ass cunt fart nipple shit whore.

I feel really, really unattractive. Actually, it’s a little more than that – I feel pointless. Like, why bother. Dressing up, wearing make up, trying to look cute – what’s the point? It’s just me under there, after all, and no one cares.

So, yeah. Angst. Anyone want to have a pity party? I’ll be the one in the unwashed sweats.

Wait, I don’t own sweats. I need to go buy some sweats. Ugly ones, to match how I feel.

This is a terrible time of year for me. I’m half mad from a combination of cabin fever, foolish anticipation and angst – I keep waiting for something to come along and rescue me from a life of ordinary mediocrity, but nothing appears. My moods flip back and forth between extreme melancholy to bat-shit insanity with a sprinkling of insincere optimism, and it’s making me very tired.

I know it’ll pass – it always does – but it’s getting very hard to hide my angst from the world around me. My temper is impractically short these days, so I’ve been hiding from almost everyone in a misguided attempt at keeping myself from blurting out horrible things in a fit of irritation. It doesn’t always work. I called Ed a pussy last night, and not in an affectionate way. I apologized, but he’s still mad at me and I guess I deserve it but it still sucks.

As always, my end-of-winter depressive state comes with a deep and meaningful self-realization to make me feel better about being so crazy because hey, what’s a little insanity without some kind of grand dawning comprehension on the side? As I trudged onto the sea turtle yesterday to go home, I suddenly grasped the reason behind my utter loathing of transit: it’s all so ORDINARY.

I have a fear, you see. Beyond my fear of tarantulas, children, and tarantula children, I am *terrified* of being ordinary. I have had dreams of the white picket fence and 2.3 children and soccer practice and tuna casseroles, and literally woken up in a sweat – nothing could be more horrible to me than a life of boring, normal, humdrum, vanilla routine. The reason I hate taking transit so much is because I imagine I can see the defeat in the faces of all those people – they’re going to a job they hate, putting in the 8 or 10 hours for a paycheque, then heading home to sit in front of the TV until it’s time to go to bed and do it all over again until they die. I’m afraid that this is as exciting as my life is going to get, and that I’ll end up a brittle shell of a person sleepwalking through my days with nothing to look forward to except the few moments of peace I get while taking a shower before I have to face family and the world. I’m terrified that this is all there is, and I will waste my life desperately hoping something magical will happen. Walking with the crowd as we file out of the sea bus doors and up to the streets makes me feel tiny and invisible and ordinary, and I *hate* it. I hate it so much. I am pathologically afraid of being just like everyone else, and while it is a pretty stupid fear, I feel absolutely no need to get over it.

I don’t necessarily think that I am a beautiful and unique snowflake (although I totally am), but losing myself in the morning crowd makes me feel as though I am truly losing myself – like I might emerge from the masses wearing white sneakers with black nylons and carrying a Lululemon bag holding my sensible work shoes and a baggie of celery. I can’t handle that feeling. It is a deep primal fear, like my fear of Cheez Whiz. My own cowardice of normalcy is making me short tempered and angry, which leads me to calling people names from the comfort of my bed while running over pedestrians in a stolen taxi. It is insane. It needs to stop.

My fear of the masses probably won’t go away, but I would like it to become a little more manageable so I am not paralyzed with dread over something I am normally okay with (like work and getting to work and not being able to run away to join the circus). Better weather would definitely help, as would my life getting back to its regularly scheduled program of adventure and fun and inappropriate behaviour. Some things are Up in the Air, and I will feel better once they’re squared away and back to whatever passes as routine for me.

You know, that’s pretty much the only thing keeping me going at the moment – knowledge that yes I am fucked in the head right now but it WILL get better one way or another, and even if the sea bus doesn’t break out into synchronized dance this afternoon, something hilarious and awesome is bound to come my way soon. One of the few things I like about myself is my ability to find humour in almost everything – this is a test, is all. Something about this is very, very funny and I just need to find out what.

My hackles are raised, the red flag is up, my spidey-sense is tingling, there’s a disturbance in the force, my hair is standing on end, shivers are going down my spine, someone is dancing on my grave, and other assorted folksy idioms.

The new VP of Lab Services has handed me (via other people, so he doesn’t get his hands dirty) a new Prime Directive: starting January, I am to focus on weekly training sessions for two different departments.

Fuck.

Training people is my least favourite part of my job. For the last couple months I’ve been working on special projects and kicking all kinds of ass at it – but now that the new VP is in charge, I’m being taken off those projects and made to toil in the fields to come up with lesson plans and apple polish.

There are other issues, too: I’m leery of the new VP. Since he started, he’s worked with every manager except me – and while my direct boss tells me I’m still a manager, I don’t get the face time and instead get things passed down to me via other people. It’s a little difficult to verbalize why I feel so uneasy about this whole thing, which makes it hard to talk to my boss about it – he’s a cool guy, but I can’t walk into his office and say “so hey boss, I’m feeling left out and kind of weird about the new VP guy who doesn’t seem to think I’m worthy to talk to directly like he does with every other manager”. Or .. maybe I can. That seems to be the gist of it, I guess. Time to have a meeting with the boss .. should be fun.

I woke up 14 years old and need to bitch about my mother in the worst way, but I will handle only one existential crisis at a time. Instead, as requested, here are my new Docs:

mmm mary jane docs

Oh my god you guys, I have the BEST idea:

When people go to a restaurant and order a salad, clearly what they REALLY want is some fried chicken! We should totally put deep fried chickens on our salads! I mean, who would totally order a salad in an attempt to not eat grease for lunch? We have an OBLIGATION to our customers to make sure they’re eating as greasy as possible! A salad just isn’t a salad until someone tops it off with a mandatory hunk of questionable fried meat, after all. It certainly isn’t like there’s an epidemic of fat in our country that we’re supposedly aware of and are helping sort out by giving people healthier choices, or anything. It’s also not like we praise ourselves and fool others into thinking they’re eating something GOOD for them just because it’s green underneath, right? Fried chickens for EVERYONE! Go go getting greasy!

I hadn’t realized that Wendy’s changed their salads to include a mandatory piece of fried chicken, and I am not impressed. Let’s just forget for a second exactly how much I loathe warm lettuce, and concentrate on the ridiculousness of the whole affair – I ordered a salad for lunch because I specifically didn’t want a deep fried chicken sandwich. What on EARTH makes them think that perhaps I really do want that slab of meat; I just don’t know it yet? The chicken salads USED to have cold grilled chicken in with all the salady goodness, and they were awesome. This new atrocity is completely disgusting, tastes horrible, and goddamnit I wanted a salad for lunch, not a fucking grease bomb on a bed of wilted lettuce.

Fuckers.

I *hate* warm lettuce.