Slept in as late as possible, got to work on time, punched in, and did my thing. I also forgot to wear a belt.
Oh, did I ever write about what happened with The Clubhouse’s uniform? I think I did. Maybe.
After all of the back and forth over a pair of fucking khaki pants, Big Bird finally put her webbed foot down. It was decided that I would have to wear the uniform while working the front desk, as it keeps with The Clubhouse’s brand. The compromise was that I would not have to pay for anything. Big Bird said that she would cover it with our department’s budget, and would continue to pay for every subsequent seasonal uniform change going forward. Big Bird also added that she might put me in charge of sourcing the “look” for the next ensemble. Okay. I can deal with that.
Listen. The uniform is definitely not my style. It’s not completely horrible, though. I also didn’t have to pay for anything, so I’ll suck it up and wear the damn thing. The only problem, however, was that the pants they gave me were way too big. As in, when I forget my belt today, my pants wouldn’t stay on without me holding them up. Oh, well. Given my recent rate of weight gain, I’m sure I’ll fill them in soon enough.
My time behind the front desk today was fairly dull. For the most part, I just dicked around on the computer and downloaded GIFs. I also really don’t give two fucks about signing members in, which is the main part of my job. Half of the time, I’m not even listening to members when they tell me their names. The sign-in sheets at the front desk are mostly filled with names I have made up. Today there were a lot of “Lisa’s” and “Jeff’s.” Fuck it.
I really don’t care much about what happens inside The Clubhouse. I’m extremely informal with members. For example, when Riley got off the elevator today and I yelled, “Oh, this bitch!” in front of a group of suits. Or, when I told a member that I would happily set fire to the building so that he could use the fire escape stairs instead of waiting for the world’s slowest elevator.
By 4:30 p.m., every member of the management team was running around with their heads cut off. Don’t ask me why, as I had chosen not to get involved in their dramatics. It was extremely jarring, though. Especially Niall, who was in the club to do some administration work behind the front desk all day. That fucker is on some sort of power trip at all times.
Despite me being the one working the desk today, Niall had no problem interrupting me every time I was talking to a member. Instead of fighting Niall’s ego, I just sat back and watched his freckled Irish forehead swell with little beads of orange sweat that eventually make their way to his beard, all while I downloaded more GIFs of Hillary Clinton. Then, Niall would tell me that I was doing something wrong and I would simply blame it on my toe. What my gremlin foot has to do with signing in members properly, I don’t know. I also don’t give a flying fuck.
Eventually, 6 p.m. rolled around. I had my backpack on and was ready to go. I went to Trinity Bellwoods Park again with the intention of reading, but when I got there I found I wasn’t in the mood. The weather wasn’t ideal – I’m not a fan of clouds – and by the time I settled in, it was getting late. I’ve decided that I’ll only go to the park straight from work on days I finish at 5 p.m. or earlier.
While in the park, I ended up listening to the Butterfly album again. I fell asleep for a bit, and then watched some dumb dogs play with one another in the dog bowl. Dogs are so weird. Have you ever just watched a dog play? Even their little legs are strange. I do appreciate their horniness, though.
By the time I was ready to leave the park, a haze had washed over me. It was probably due to the music I was listening to. I sequenced Me. I Am Mariah... The Elusive Chanteuse my entire walk home, and found myself going through every emotion as a result.
One emotion that really overwhelmed me for the better part of the night was this sense of guilt. I don’t know why, or even how to describe it. I feel guilty about everything. I think I passed about six people with missing or deformed limbs on my walk home tonight – the last of which was inside the grocery store near the Witch Cave, where I stopped to get enough candy to give me every type of diabetes. God. It’s like I’m looking to lose a limb myself. Who am I? Granny?
Anyway, I saw this guy comparing cereals in the grocery store. He was in a wheelchair, and his thighs were just sort of flat. I guess he couldn’t walk, and therefore wasn’t able gain any muscle on the lower half of his body. I know that people like this man in the wheelchair probably don’t want to be pitied, but I felt so bad. I felt so guilty.
I feel guilty that I have every fortune in the world. I have been given so much, and so many opportunities. I am so fucking fortunate. Really, I am. I know I am. I have an amazing family, great friends, and I’ve had the opportunity to travel to so many different places. I’m also 6’2”, blonde, and decently handsome.
Yet, despite all of this, I’m not happy. And what right do I have to say that? You know? I’ve got some fucking nerve saying that I’m unhappy when I pass a guy who can’t even reach a box of Wheaties on the top shelf at the grocery store, or when I see a guy riding a bike with one arm.
I feel guilty about my body. I keep saying I will fix it, and I haven’t.
I feel guilty about my career. I’ve had every opportunity to apply myself, learn and grow, and I don’t.
I feel guilty about my reading and writing. I haven’t done nearly as much as I said I was going to do.
I feel guilty about not traveling as much as I want to. Letting my youth slowly pass me by as I continue saying how I want an adventure, yet I’ve remained stuck in Toronto.
I feel guilty about everything. I fucking hate it.
I’m constantly going through these phases of depression and sadness, and my life isn’t even that bad. It’s not bad at all. Then the cycle begins. I get sad, and I eat. Then, I’m sad because I ate. How many fucking times have we written about this? I don’t even know if I’m looking to find a resolution through writing this out. I just want to purge it from my system, and maybe learn to appreciate my life more.
I do appreciate my life, though. I really do. I feel like I have a decent grasp on all of the wonderful fortunes in my life. It’s just that sometimes I get so wrapped up in the little things that I forget about the big picture. I don’t even know what one of those little things would be right now. Maybe PW? Or that my career isn’t where I want it to be?
But, who fucking cares? I have a roof over my head, all of my limbs are intact, and I can pay my bills while still being able to afford a $150 tailored vest. I think I’m doing just fine. Just try to fucking remember that when you’re sad about something.
The thing is, I’m trying to think back to what I was sad about while I was walking home tonight. I can’t. I can’t think of one thing I was sad about, yet I still remember having that feeling. I think that’s what bothers me the most. The unknown. Why am I sad? I really don’t know. Maybe I should listen to fewer ballads.
Finally back at the Witch Cave, I had something to eat while watching The Nanny. I did some floor exercises, and now I’m writing this journal entry.
I still haven’t heard from Phillip. I doubt I will any time soon. Half of the city has migrated north for WayHome Music Festival. Good riddance! I might actually go up to Casa Z this weekend. Although, I have a strong feeling that Hanlan’s Point will be the place to be on Saturday. I really don’t want to miss that. We’ll see.
Big Bird is taking the day off tomorrow. I am very excited about her absence. It’s going to be an entire day of me! My music, being able to dip out of the office whenever I want, and having a gay old time without any of Big Bird’s carrot crunching or moldy protein shake cups attracting fruit flies.
I feel like there’s more I wanted to write about tonight, but I can’t remember right now. I’m going to rub one out and go to bed. Sweet dreams, sweetie darlings.