At least I cannot rant about kids this week. Well, there is a tale about my nephew this week that showed me my line that would be crossed before getting physical with a developing family member. I do love my developed family, so I cannot be wishing PG-13 Joe Dante consequences on their kids. What I should have done was record the tantrum to show my early childhood teacher of a sister's restraint with him. It makes me wonder where that was growing up with her.
Things would be so much easier on me if I had some celebrity credentials. People could keep up with my writing and pitches to help promote my B-movie pro-wrestling zomcom, Main Event of the Dead, (I would happy to send you a treatment if you e-mail me at russthebus07@gmail.com) like they get news updates on their phone. More importantly, my loved ones would not have to wait three weeks to see where my head is at right now. But for the casual reader, alternating movie reviews and personal blogs make more sense than just being clever with my own self-loathing.
The loathing reminds me of an ex-girlfriend who stalked me online for a year and a half before working up the nerve to let me know how well she was, that she was over her own psychotic depression issues and that there was hope for me. When I asked for help, she quickly turned around and called me poison and that I could not survive being someone who hates everything and drunkenly mocks it. At least moving down to Champaign has left me with the knowledge that I am more than capable of sober mockery.
So it may not be self-loathing but loathing in general. If I want to be more specific, loathing those who expect everything to be their way. Being at my retail job sounds like it would be a better environment than my hotel work tonight. It is tough doing a 14-hour day, but knowing that dads are spoiling their children with homemade waffles means it will be the mid afternoon before they come to scream at the store. With no immediate juvenile shrieking, I'd be coasting on that morning vibe till it was time to clock out. At least I know that I am tough to leave that job to deal with supposedly rational persons touting the money they spend as a reason to ignore posted warnings about our limitations.
If you say, "I am not one to complain, but my superstar status (cannot give away the game) justifies it," you should be loathed. Are you angry, or just want a discount? When we hear complaints about the same thing from the other side of the building, it is probably the latter.
My rule when it comes to complaining is to be happy with the apology and acknowledgement that they can make things better. If they do not do that, then I am going to request compensation, but I am not going to expect something for free...unless they are fast food franchise and that is because they usually turned me away from actually getting food to begin with.
Thus, I live in a fried chicken desert. The new air fryer cannot make battered stuff so no faux-McNuggets.
There is just a feeling that everywhere someone wants to put themselves above you. My mom got that in Morton when the mother's of our friends try to measure worth by grandchildren count. If you are familiar with me in Peoria wrestling, those who do not drink (well, go intercourse yourself Andy Roberts) or prick you with needles will tell you that was how I was.
Despite context issues with a lot of those claims, it may be true, but I at least I told you I was aspiring to do so. Aspiring to be, not actually being, so technically their claims are false. If I could have gotten my shit together (or if Carrie would have sooner) and the local booker would try to springboard those with greater aspirations than his WWE light, the business would be what I hid from the IRS. The point is, I was fighting for a livelihood not a discount on an open-box item or a hotel room. Then again, independent wrestling is based on handshakes and hot dogs.
Adulthood for me has been a litany of failures, so some of the loathing is probably directed at myself. I could blame the stereo-typically loathsome (junkies/strippers/wrestlers/crusty jugglers), but they are the company I kept and may still be comfortable with. Judge not unless ye be judged. If the real world would stop doing that, there is a chance I may get over myself.
It is ironic that I enjoy my current sources of income because it could be called an advertisement to why I should be loathed. And with a lack of friends to produce my B-movie pro-wrestling zomcom, Main Event of the Dead, no one is telling the world why I should not be. Support is just words offered by the few who grant you some attention or a girlfriend who tells judgy people about your depression and flaws.
If all the dancers at Big Al's got an that impression of her, I suppose all the parishioners at the Vineyard should plot to destroy the enlightenment I obtained five years ago when I realized judgement was the reason religion was bad. It only seems fair and that's what friends are for.
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