The Lamest Complaint

I'm not happy. Not big drama bad, but instilling discipline is less fun. It's a highly technical field. It's not conducive towards people skills, friends, is programming and engineering and physics and neural mapping analysis. Magnets are poor fertilizer for anything much past ferocity of purpose. I'm heading into a career of straight edges and angles with hours of menial effort between the actual reaping of sugar-cane data, a job where grey areas aren't relaxed but are harsh and impeding rains of static, impairing visibility and freezing fingertips. And I'm wary of it. Back when, way when way back, I had myself oriented to the poles and leaned on fixed points for definition and purpose, it was stress and sickness and an endless uncertain doubt. It wasn't that I hated it. I didn't know there was an it to hate. But still, it was bad for me. Muscle-sapping, lunch-returningly bad. No wonder I read so much, saw so many movies, watched so much TV, slept so long. And then the natural sharpness of my bright nerdy little brain found the little hole in the weave and fingers and toes were exposed to the coldness of existential space which was eventually the wild new frontier I escaped into and built strange habitats in and was something closer to free. And I kept spreading out, shapeless amoeba brain. And lo, things were damn good. No niche, sure, and nothing to point to and say "I made this" and build a future on, but a big wide weird view of the world. But that isn't going to fly here.

It's not easy, giving up fluidity, even if it's in exchange for a skeletal structure and muscles. I value my plasticity. It's... it's all I got. I don't want my mind to grow a solid structure resistant to change, even if it's a high-function structure. Ah well, I gotta anyhow. Gotta read papers, program displays, tweak endless maps of glowing brains, run subjects through mindless cycles and punch electrons through their skulls to see what makes them tick. Because if they don't, I have every damn faith and no damn doubt that they will catch on to the deceit which is my sum totality. And that leaves me with a job in retail data entry service management sanitation. I shoulda gone into Clinical Psych. Then the Evil Inside could get paid to do what it love to do so well and look unblinking into the dark of men's souls and then manipulate them into being functioning autobotmen. Ay. It's like putting my brain in a corset. It may give me great sulcal cleavage that'll make all the employers and reviewers drool with scientifical lust, but it'll take time to learn to breathe comfortably and keep from popping out when I bend over or dance. Sexy sexy brains. It'd all be a lot easier if I had a devotion to one of those self-transformative meditative hobbies like writing or mountain climbing or formalized ass-kicking (you know, with the belts and comfortable white pants). When you have something to grab onto and use as metaphor for growth and adaptation and the profits of discipline, well, that's a finer thing.

What makes the whole scenario pathetic is that it's basically just a lazy "I don' wanna" and Peter Pan immaturity from a creature used to being able to slip out from between fingers and obligations, commitments and definitions while he plays all day. And I'm a bit suspicious how much easier a pill to take it became when I rephrased it as a job instead of school.

Still.

I better goddamn get my laser arm and million dollars, I tell you right now. Because if I stop being able to understand how the sun is like a squid with glasses or talk to women, I am going to be fucking pissed unless I can shoot clay pigeons with my fingers on my yacht a couple miles from the major port of Acidalia Planitia.