MUMSY: Make up your mind to come inside, dear. We have flush facilities, you know.
POTSY: Repulsive. To pull a chain, and have the compact intimations of mortality gargled off down a sanitary sewer? Hideous. No, in this good place we are content.
As the saying goes, shit or get off the pot. I’m afraid that I’ve been a bit constipated when it comes to finishing so that I can get off. I’m like poor Potsy and not wanting to leave the comforts of his outhouse seat, and certainly not in a rush while his mother stands outside talking with him – the scene would be amusing if played on stage, but horrifying in real life.
A friend told me last night that every problem that happens, every mistake, confrontation, challenge… is all the same shit. There’s no point in running from problems because you’ll just end up finding even more shit to deal with. I thought things would get better when I moved away from a non-profit organization and into a more professional one, but my friend is right. It’s all the same shit.
It’s a lot easier holding the shit within yourself than letting it go, but it does feel better once you do sit down and relieve yourself. And I’m not talking about the actual act. I get told a lot from people to suck it up, and I do, but then I have friends who tell me I’m a ticking time bomb because I don’t talk about the issues going on in my life. As he says, he won’t be at all surprised if he finds himself telling someone, “He was such a nice guy growing up. I never thought he’d be capable of doing such a devastating thing.” People talk about closeted homosexuals; can I be a closeted psycho? A psycho that really wants to shit.
The time has come when I’m starting to question my actions and whether there really is a point to all this or not. Am I destined to work in this business for a long time, or am I going to be a floater and searching for the next best job all the time, just like I’m accused of looking for the next best girl too. Forever single; forever job-searching.
Whatever position I have, whoever I talk with or associate with or anyone that has a glimpse of me, ends up giving me the feeling that I’m a monumental waste and failure. People chew me up, swallow, then take a shit with me coming out. I get used, can’t be heard (or rather listened to) and rarely want to be seen.
I’m tired of this shit.