Gahhh. Gah, I say

Dear lord, I'm tired. I had to wake up pre-7 a.m., which is an ungodly time and should be banned. Have I mentioned I'm not a morning person? Well I'm not. Morning people disturb me. I mean, what is wrong with them? Why are they so cheerful? Mornings should be spent grumbling and angry, gripping a coffee pot and cursing the dawn, not poncing about with shit-eating grins doing yoga or whatever else morning people do.

I slinked off to the lactation room to take a nap at around 11:00. Thankfully no one noticed I was gone for half an hour. Despite the fact that this means I'm even less important than I flatter myself to be, I'll keep up with my little siestas and hope no one grows the wiser. We used to have a whole unused wing of our building where I could lie down during lunch, baking in the window-enhanced sun like an overgrown, hairless cat. It's unfortunately occupied now, narrowing my napping resources, but I'll soldier on. Sure, I run the risk of having new moms with milk-heavy breasts honing in on my quiet time, but I figure they probably need the break more than I do. I'm so giving.

The Original Blue Man Group

I was pawing through the Internet the other day, avoiding work as I’m wont to do on a rainy Monday afternoon, and happened to read that the Smurfs had turned 50. While the half-century anniversary of those Belgian blue guys is decidedly “smurftastic” I can’t help but be panged at the news with an old jealousy I’ve nursed for nigh on 25 years.

One may recall from their childhood, or their ill-spent stoned adulthood, that the Smurfs are comprised of a town full of seemingly inbred blue creatures with boomerang-shaped heads and a penchance for all-white attire. Much has also been made of their thinly-veiled Communist tendencies, ranging from their groupthink behavior to their apparent sharing of collective wealth and goods, right down to their one, no doubt very tired female specimen.

While I could prattle on ad nauseum about this somewhat sordid arrangement, I’m far too sober to believe anyone would care for the dissertation, and so I turn my attention instead to my previously inferred envy toward my little friends. The jealousy in question stems from the Smurfs utopian arrangement, oft-seen in literature and fairy tales, of “each man to his calling, each according to its purpose” societal organization. The talents of every Smurf have been channeled into a respective career, that is to say, the smurf with baking tendencies has been allowed to be “Baker Smurf,” the metal-working artisan is given the title of “Blacksmith Smurf,” the art-minded blue Michaelangelo-type gets to be “Painter Smurf” and so on and so forth.

Sure, there’s no room for existential crisis in this arrangement, and we never got to see “Angst Smurf,” “Dead-beat Smurf” or “Strung-out Smurf,” but perhaps such blights on productive life were notably absent because such a system could not conceive of producing such characters. Everyone wants a purpose and a calling. Everyone wants to feel as if their talents are not only identified, but appreciated and put to use. And yet, throughout much of history, people have been shuttled into narrow occupational fields seldom befitting their true interests or skills. Now, perhaps more than ever, we have a wealth of options with which to eke out a living, yet the choices still seem painfully few and far between, particularly for those of us with creative tendencies.

And so I’m jealous. Painfully, gut-wrenchingly jealous of these elfin eurotramps and their perfect, little Socialist society. If I were a smurf I might very well be working as a writer from my mushroom-shaped home office instead of slogging through another day as a corporate drone in cubicle city. If I were a smurf I would know my place, would have my name, my very identity sealed by my talents, leaving me secure to pursue pastimes other than the never-ending job search, like avoiding Gargamel or trying to annoy Papa Smurf with my uppity feminist ideas. But I’m not a smurf. And I’ll get no smurfity perks. Heck, I’m not even Belgian.

Smurrrrrrf.

Angsty angsty angsty

I am dissatisfied. Truly, deeply dissatisfied. It may be on a cellular level for all I know. I imagine if you stripped apart my DNA you might see it had abandoned the double helix in favor of a frown formation; such is the level of my discontent. I have always been dissatisfied. Take for example one of my honest-to-God poems from fifth grade:

Alone

Blamed
Hurt
Running away in tears
Sobbing
Hurting
Minute by minute
More and more
Time stands still
Nothing
Quiet
Alone

In addition to being incredibly embarrassing, I think the above stab at literary greatness demonstrates a ridiculous amount of angst for a ten-year-old. And sadly, while I’m debatably a better writer, the sentiment is still alive and well in the nearly 30-year-old me. I’m not entirely sure where all this whiny frustration comes from. It could be genetic of course. Both my parents have struggled with depression. But I’m not depressed. Or rather, as a non-licensed psychologist I would say that I do not consider myself depressed. Depression, to me, is a state of inaction. Of paralysis. Whereas I am nothing if not action-oriented. While many, if not most people seem afraid of change, I thrive on it. I crave it. I will almost always choose flight over fight and let’s just say I spend a lot of time in the air.

So no, I’m not depressed. I’m simply…annoyed. To keep myself sane I try to focus my annoyance on the outside world. It is, after all, wholly self-destructive to fixate on one’s own shortcomings. I’ve done that and it isn’t pretty. But the world outside my horribly flawed mind and body provides no shortage of things to be annoyed and disappointed with. There’s all the stupid people, of course. And the incredibly misguided Government we are now under the jackbooted heel of. And everywhere, everywhere you look, there are horribly inefficient systems, from coffee shops to multinational corporations. As one stumbles through the day it’s often more a question of what isn’t annoying than what is. Life is an all-you-can-eat buffet of annoyances. And I am a glutton for it, I suppose.

Sometimes I very dearly wish I could shut off my radar for all that is wrong and trade my black colored glasses for rose-hued ones. I would like to bask in gratitude and unfettered joy and see the good in everyone and everything. And sometimes I do. There are those moments where I very nearly choke back emotion at all that is beautiful and real. It buoys me. I regain my idealism. And then, as always, it is dashed upon the rocks like so many ill-fated ships in a storm when I’m terribly disappointed once again.

In the beginning...

...there was the blog. And the blog was good.

It's about time I did this again. I used to have a blog. A blog with a following and bona fide fans and little monkey minions in top hats to do my bidding. But I got lazy and stopped, as is wont to happen to many of we unmotivated, creative types.

But I'm back. Back because I need an outlet. Back because I have too many sick little thoughts crowding my head, waking me in the night like a toddler needing to pee. I just can't have that. I work full time and I can't afford that slightly mad, slightly glazed look in the eye that comes from too many nights replaying every conversation I've ever had.

Thus Obsessive Compulsive Overdose was born, or as I casually call my little pet, OCD OD. I hope you enjoy my little trips. I've packed enough baggage for both of us.