don't count on them always being premeditated. some are just diarrhea of the mouth via calloused fingertips. the biggest problem i've had before is knowing when to stop, but isn't it always? it's no different with my writing; no, that sounds too pretentious. let's call it "venting" and avoid all of those snobbish connotations.
christ, i let myself be beaten out of the habit for a couple months and all of a sudden i start writing apologetic disclaimers. one of my highlighted solzhenitsyn quotables from today's reading says "a genius doesn't adapt his treatment to the taste of tyrants." again, not saying i'm anywhere near being a genius, but the point remains the same: be wise enough to say "fuck the haters." that being said, let me stop sounding like a battered puppy and get to the (non-existent) point.
it was a good day of being a plumbing ninja at work. i feel as though i'm gaining confidence in the ridiculously inappropriate trade i'm doomed to learn, which is a plus. i find myself hating work a little less each day, a little less confused as to what's going on and why, regarding the pipes at least. as for the general state of things: the verdict is not yet in. or maybe it is, but i don't want to open the envelope the jurors have handed me. i think too much for my own good, i know too much for my own good, i'll probably live either not long enough or too long for my own good. i could throw some miserable existentialist sartre line at you, but i don't feel like digging through the damn book just to prove a point. and there i go again assuming that just because some hermit jotted some proverb down before succumbing to inevitably supplying the worm-food inventory he must be right. the sad part is that i'm pretty sure i even have a highlighted passage about that somewhere. let me end this vicious cycle before it gets any uglier. if only i could take my own advice in multiple facets of my humble existence.
aside from feeling like i could pipe a house alone at the job we're at, i'm starting to feel like my own entity on the job as opposed to just someone's bitchprentice. the guys trust me, appreciate me, know i appreciate them, and we all have our own inside jokes bust balls accordingly. i'll save boring you with work-related banter for another, more desperate entry, though. this one has a point. kinda.
he keeps talking about these "points" like he's going to actually find one.
right, so i'm doing my thing in the crawlspace yesterday and my partner shoves a pipe through the hole in the wall from outside. it jams into my ear, i yell an obscenity and take off my glove for damage assessment. not too much blood, but my ear canal is jammed with dirt. i wipe it clean, slide my glove back on, and resume finishing the drain i was working on. not so much as an "i'm sorry, i should've made sure you weren't in the way" from my coworker, though. construction guys are too macho for apologies. still, he crawled back under the house with me and commenced work at the opposite corner like a dog with his tail between his legs. i think it was because he felt guilty knowing that if i had injured him out of ignorance he would've ripped me a new one, verbally and otherwise. the fact that i laughed it off and kept working proved a hell of a lot more to him than cursing him out would have. "the kid knows how to grin and bear it, he wouldn't have made it this far if he couldn't roll with the punches. maybe i should lighten up when i'm out to push his buttons for a kick." or maybe i'm entirely wrong and he just worked on the other side of the building after jabbing my head with the pipe because he was tired of my gas.
i finished the drain and moved on to a new wonderfully exciting plumbing endeavor, one that we hadn't even anticipated beginning today, while my partner dozed off on his side a few paces away. the beauty of being a union worker in an isolated crawlspace under a house is that there are many instances of utilizing a more "casual" work pace, hence his nap. another benefit is the insistence upon having a radio to listen to whenever possible. i was enjoying this perk when a song i hadn't heard yet came on: "hey there delilah." i'm a sucker for chords softly plucked on an acoustic, and the vocals didn't help matters any; the sincerity in his voice, the details of his plaintive phrasings. it simultaneously reminded me of every girl i've ever fallen for, and for different reasons. i stopped working and stared at the pipes and checked to make sure my partner was still sleeping twenty feet away since it'd be embarrassing if he saw me get caught up in the moment. i spread out on my back in the crawlspace and let one roll down and realized that it was probably the gayest moment ever in the history of construction. i seem to set a lot of those precedents. the song faded and the d.j. came back on and i snapped out of it. i wasn't sure why it happened then and there and in that pathetic way, but the rest of the day was instantly changed. i wondered if they felt the same when they heard it. i still do, in both senses.
dinner at my mother's was equally ruined. she made the steak and pasta i'd been requesting for a few weeks, and though it was delicious it didn't go over well with my stepfather. he was drunk and cantankerous as usual (two vodkas and a glass of wine a night, plus whatever beer he downs at the bar from lunchtime on). my mom made the mistake of spoiling him with her domestic skills and he's taken full advantage. for example, the only cut of steak he'll eat anymore is filet mignon. about a third of a porterhouse is filet. i was laying down in the living room when i heard it all go down in the kitchen. he ate that part, got angry, and threw the rest of his steak into the garbage. my mom flipped out on him and called him an ingrate and a bastard for wasting expensive food like that. my heart raced and i felt myself taking deeper breaths. i'd been waiting for that moment (which reminds me: "lazy eye" by silversun pickups is my other current musical guilty pleasure) for awhile now, he's been a lousy husband as of late and it's been eating me alive to think that my mother suffers as a result. she screamed that she has a son who would've taken the leftovers thankfully, that's when my hands got the loose tingling sensation you get when you think you're about to ball them into fists and bash them against someone or something. i honestly thought it was my cue; he'd lay a hand on her and i'd dash into the kitchen and give him the pummeling he's deserved for awhile. i stood up to him when i was fifteen during one of his drunken episodes, i sure as hell ain't afraid of him now that i'm fully grown and fully pissed that he can be such a douchebag to such a loving, supportive woman. my chance didn't come, though. he stormed upstairs and shut himself in the room. i felt my stomach turn due to all the emotion raging inside my gut and couldn't enjoy the satiation of the meal anymore. before leaving i asked if he'd ever hit her, she promised he hadn't. i told her to tell me if he ever stoops that low. i hope it never comes to that, but i pray i'm there if it ever does. it won't, he's too cowardly to ever start anything serious with me around. he knows better. i give him that at least.
my fellow apprentice on the job i'm at came over between work and plumbing class today. we stopped at the gas station for a few tall boys (24 oz. cans of beer, for those of you unaccustomed to the alky jargon). i downed one on the way home and managed to kill the other three with enough time to get to class before it officially started. the both of us were obviously a bit twisted; we staggered in together smiling, reeked of beer, and kept getting up to piss every half hour or so. the buzz makes the miserable three hours we have to be there two nights a week slightly more tolerable, though, so it's worth all the risk. i gave my number out to the other apprentices in my class on a smoke break and told them to give me a call if they want to post-work/pre-game at my place with us tomorrow. i live five minutes from the union hall so it's very convenient, and the brotherly union bonding process will be expedited more efficiently with the aid of alcohol. i'll gladly allow my humble abode be the catalyst for any such activity, even if it means playing host and throwing out a few empties. it's not like i haven't thrown away worse. and more. and paid for it in spades for years on end. speaking of cards, i finally figured out why they call aces and eights the dead man's hand: there's no way to get a straight of any kind in poker with those two cards because they're too far apart. again, nothing new.
i'm going to florida for a week on saturday to get away from it all and see some family. my mom tried to slip me a fifty for some extra spending money while i'm down there, but i respectfully declined. "it's ok, i make more than you now anyway. thanks, though." as i put my shoes on to leave her house she hugged me harder than usual. it's as though she'd been waiting for a male in her life to not take advantage of her for once and thanked me for it with a sincere farewell. who are you saving your "good hug" for?, and why are you wasting your time by reading this instead of acting on it? a female character in sartre's "nausea" (ok, so i lied about not citing an exie author) complains to an ex-boyfriend that he always blew those "perfect moments" by not saying and doing the right things at the right times to crystallize those memories that have the potential to be too good to be true. life's too short and seemingly pointless (unless we give it one, more sartre) to let those perfect moments slip through your fingers time and time again. they'll run out someday, they always do.
i'm tired from coming down from the beer buzz. sorry for wasting your time. and mine. i had better intentions, but fell short. go figure.
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