This Week in 1982. In My Brain.

Guess you could say

that I haven't had as much time on my hands since I started my new job. Aaaaaand you'd be correct. I'm working nine, nine and a half hour days, with a half-hour for lunch some days. Some days none.

And I'll tell you - I haven't worked this hard for a while, and I'm still getting the hang of the new gig and all its gears and levers. So I go home cross-eyed tired every day.

But am I complaining? ABSOLUTELY NOT. Like I've said elsewhere, if the work is even mildly interesting, if the company is even moderately well-run, and if there's even just a possibility of making decent money, I'm miles ahead of where I've been for the past three years.

But three years of treading water and living in alternating states of dread and delusion did take a certain toll - aside from the financial aspect. Namely, I did lose some stamina, and maybe some ability to focus.

Hence the profound exhaustion. I'm like a runner getting back on his feet after a extended period of forced inactivity. But every day, it gets a little better.

The End of the World, Continued

There are few constants throughout the history of human expression, but one observation has surely been expressed in every language, past and present: "Everything used to be better; the world's going to hell."

I think everyone eventually realizes the timelessness (thus worthlessness) of this sentiment, though that realization never seems to curtail anyone from continuing to share the observation with anyone who'll listen. Especially with our contemporaries, since they're the ones most likely to vehemently agree.

But I'm not talking about just the decline of the human race, I'm talking about the end. Last call. Game fucking Over.

And for me, this seemed real and imminent for a long time - from the time I was eight or nine, till I was about nineteen.

At first, it was just a vague foreboding - don't laugh; little kids can feel foreboding - brought on by overhearing snippets of grown-up conversation. Something about Russians and missiles and fallout shelters. Then, as I began to read comic books, and later science fiction novels and short stories, the theme was reinforced continually.

Of course, since I was still pretty young, this sense of the nearness of a cosmic cliff awaiting us all had no real impact on my day-to-day life, partly because of my secret belief that I was either a mutant or an alien and so probably exempt from any approaching human extinction.

As I entered adolescence, though, I began to take the idea of The End much more seriously. Much more personally. They had killed most of the leaders I admired, and most of the artists I loved were doing themselves in, fast or slow. We were busily wiping out whole towns and tribes in Southeast Asia, and all the adults I knew seemed either delusional or catatonic.

Add to this the typical teenage hormone explosion. Then, just to make it more interesting, mix in some - OK, many - other chemicals. It becomes easy to see how I could peer into the future back then and see....Nothing.

And by this time, I was old enough to have some of my behavior affected by this perspective. For example, I only took the SATs because it was easier to just take them than to try to explain to my parents that I wasn't going to college, so, you know, what was the point. End of the world and all that.
(I may have actually done better on the test because of my complete lack of seriousness about it).

Well, there were more of those kind of fuckitall choices, but somehow I survived the next few years, wound up in college, and gradually began to grudgingly acknowledge that the world and I could be around for a while, so some longer-term planning might be in order. And it was scary, but also cleansing. Like a fever breaking.