Like a brown bird nesting in a Texaco sign I got a point of view
A girl I know says things like this: “fuck this shit,” and, “motherfucker.” She will size up a given situation and then spontaneously issue forth the expletive of choice. It’s as though the burbling cesspool of emotion within her has become too much to handle, and she just cannot resist dispelling that feeling, little pools of ash and soot made palpable in the air. It’s similar to the reaction you have when you stub your toe on the living room furniture and just cannot hold back, which makes you feel that much better for two seconds. Such is the case when hanging around with people, you find their behaviors rub off on you. And I can’t help but feel some resemblance to the burbling cesspool of emotion in relation to this day: charcoal gray seems to stretch interminably across the sky, and perpetual rain clouds hanging over head, following you around, cartoon-like. You can’t help but think tersely under your breath, fuck this shit. There, that’s better, now.
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I have explained my job to a coworker in the following way: “It transcends monotony,” I told him, “in a way that verges on actual torture.” He kind of laughed it off, opting instead to think I was explaining some Guantanamo Bay scenario, but he’s new yet and has all kinds of time to figure out how serious I am. Sitting before a computer monitor for large portions of the day does something to your brain. Aside from the cancerous tubers it’s planting in there, you find yourself on some distant island, the person next to you tapping on your shoulder as you, feeling the tap, respond a full five minutes later to her inquiry, the vibrations from the tap slowly making its way up your spine and into your brain, which is five minutes behind actual time. “Oh, did you say something?” you ask, as she looks at you with embarrassment for you over her question being answered ages ago by someone else. It’s quite a predicament. It’s a scenario which should have me thwarting all use of computers on my free time, but here I find myself, not getting paid, and sitting before the all-mighty compute. Tapping on my own keyboard has me thinking things, like, “Shouldn’t I be getting paid for this?” and, “Is it time for break yet?”

I am making a mixed-tape (CD) for someone, as a present. I did not think of this idea on my own, it was a request. And I am very obediently carrying out this request, as I do. Back in the day, when you would actually make a mixed-tape, with one of those Dolby noise reduction/ high bias cassettes, the process was seemingly a lot harder. You had to dig through your albums and find exactly what you were looking for, quing up the appropriate amount of space between songs. Exhausted and giving up in the end, the final product was the end result of being too tired to mess around with it anymore. But here, now, with every song you ever heard on iTunes, right there in front of you, the variations are endless. Endless possibilities and configurations do you have before you, to totally confuse and frustrate, making the old-school cassette model of the mixed-tape seem far less inferior, from an exhaustive effort point of view. I have actually been sitting in front of the computer long enough to have a sore neck. It’s a tough job, I reflect, and I’m not even at work right now. I should probably just go to the store and buy an actual present. But that would require venturing out into the day, where you will find me in a department store, with an entirely new series of problems, cursing out loud. Have we had the life as endless options via mixed-tape epiphany before? Yes, I think so. And it’s demoralizing to have to experience that again.

The tape (CD), on further inspection, despite time spent, is the worst thing I’ve ever heard in my life. If I were operating the decks, the patrons would be sprawled out on the ground and snoozing. Every song, even to me, has ended up sounding the same. My OCD was really kicking it to me, I realize, as I tried to match textures and fucked it all up. I’m contemplating all this as Kari-Ann makes an entry and hears what amounts to an aural funeral. “Kind of a gloomy mix,” she says. And she’s right: the worst. Leaving, really, only one response to this day, week, and year: Fuck this shit, motherfucker.