Composing Forgetfulness

I tend to repress a lot more than I'd like to admit. Probably why I never kept a journal before, and probably why this on-line one is sparse to say the least. It'll be odd when I die that the sum of my life's experiences will almost assuredly go with me, but maybe the grandkids will enjoy listening to me weave tales of B.S. Such are my pleasant thoughts this Monday afternoon.

In other news, I find myself torn between wanting to outright leave both of my jobs (my 8-5 gig and my gaming site one) from sheer frustration, and wanting to leave both my jobs from sheer frustration. On the one hand, I receive too little information to successfully do my job, and on the other I receive too little information to enhance my job. Go figure. It's one thing to feel completely ignored at your job, but to feel completely ignored at both jobs despite being fairly vocal results in nothing but pure frustration. To which everyone would instinctively say:

"Then why don't you speak up and make your discomfort known to The Powers That Be?"

My response is such:

"Already done that for the last few months, bud, and the only thing I've become is a few months older. And horse."

Picture this: You write up a series of articles and turn them in on average every two and a half weeks, and start building this up into what you hope, and what you have been told, will become a standard feature on the site. Nothing else comes from the Powers That Be despite your repeatedly asking them whether this is something they want to proceed with.

Then along comes some other people who just outright do what they want and circumvent you on your article writing (of a sorts). This leads one to believe the inmates have finally taken over the asylum, and the Powers That Be have become the Powers That Were But Have Taken Off To Jamaica.

The result is seeking some comfort in a day job that is less than creative-friendly, the irony being said work takes place in a production company. The company line clearly states that we make corporate videos and do a positive profile series on companies, when the reality is a series of glorified informercials. To even whisper that word around the boss will result in him going Mola Ram on you, and after he tears your heart from your chest he'll punch you in the face with it.

So I find myself left in a quandry of wanting desperately to write professionally, be it scripts, books, syndicated columns, blogs, and so forth, yet continue working in creatively-devoid endeavors while sitting at home nights looking at my computer wondering why the hell I'm not writing more than I am (which is sporadic at best). I've said it before to myself, and I'll say it again now: I think it's high time I shut up and just do it. It's times like these I grow anxious for My Fair Lady to finish law school and pass the bar (slated for next summer) so our financial situation won't appear so dire everytime I look at our bank account.

The funny thing is I still wouldn't trade my current life for going back to school. That ship sailed many moons ago, and may it never see land again.