Stray Dog Strut
I don’t know why I bitch so much about work. I rolled into the office around half-nine, took a long lunch, and left before two. No meetings, no emails, nothing. I chatted with a colleague and quietly read some of Michael Cisco’s “The Divinity Student” on my new Xteink X3. I love that thing, by the way.
This morning’s workout was killer. I’m already sore. I ditched the body-part splits some time ago and these full-body routines really take it out of me. I still look forward to it though. It’s less the aesthetic aspect and more the way it makes me feel. Proof that I’m still alive; reassurance that I’m still capable.
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The afternoon began with yet another phone call from my son’s school. He was written up for being disrespectful again. I struggle as a parent. I know I’m supposed to instill discipline and teach him the “right way,” but damn if sometimes I don’t completely agree with him.
He asked to go to the bathroom. The teacher said, “No, remember two weeks ago? You took 12 minutes in there. You can go in between classes.” A brief argument ensued, during which the teacher said, “I don’t have to argue with you,” and my son replied, “Then stop talking.” Boom. To the office.
Petty shit, all the time. I spent much of my school time in ISS (In-School Suspension), so I can’t help but empathize. Those early teen years are a mess.
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The VA is sending one of my claims back for another C&P appointment. I guess the ACE review was deemed insufficient. I’ve been obsessed with this process, checking multiple times a day sometimes. It’s not just about the money. I think it’s about the recognition and the security. Plenty of fraudsters and malingerers out there, but everything I’m claiming is supported by my service record.
I spent so many years “sucking it up.” Marines don’t complain; they don’t go to sick call. You’re a grunt. Death before dishonor and all that moto shit.
Now that I’m old though, I see the error of my ways. I gave my youth and much of my sanity with the understanding that I’d be taken care of when I needed it. I made it home and I need it, so I’ll be damned if ego keeps me from claiming it.
Once it’s done, I can stop worrying about my job. Working in an at-will state, in an industry notorious for random layoffs, I know it can all be over in an instant. But with that VA income, I won’t be immediately destitute. I can put my plan into action – bid farewell to the US and live comfortably via geoarbitrage.
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I’ve been digging these dumb wizard memes lately. Too damn relatable. Born to be a weird, old mystic in the woods; forced to participate in modern society.
When they hear my plan, people tend to respond with disbelief. “I could never do that. I would get bored.” That’s crazy to me. Twenty-four hours in a day. A third for sleep, and usually more than a third for work. That leaves you with maybe eight hours for yourself. And they’re the tired eight hours, too.
It’s no way to live, people. Scrape and save, bow and pander. At sixty-five, the government might offer you a pittance, a fraction of what you paid in. Then you hurt. Everything pops and creaks when you move. Cancer is creeping. As you lay dying, you might realize how much of your time was wasted. But then it’s too late.
Fuck the status quo, the right way of doing things.
