My Worst Nightmare

So...I've never read a blog, as far as I know; and generally I hope to keep it that way.  Hypocritical yes, but am I doing it anyway?  ...Also, yes.  So when I decided to actually write this I was confronted with the immediate problem that, so far as I can tell, I never have had nor ever will have anything to say that anyone other than myself cares to hear; possibly my parents, but lets not get ahead of ourselves...myself...whatever, lets just move on.  I suppose in the absence of something of worth to proclaim to the world, I'll just share a little anecdote intended to allow whoever makes the mistake of reading this with some personal information about myself, hopefully without boring them into a near stupor - I'm actually hoping for a full-on, catatonic stupor.  Seriously, who wouldn't want to visit a website that shuts off all of their motor functions for a couple of hours?  Especially at work; I swear I've been nearly catatonic in every job I've ever had anyway, and no one ever seemed to notice.
Which actually brings me to the topic of my anecdote that I mentioned earlier; that's right, no teasers here: I said I was going to give you an anecdote, and here I am now to produce it.  You're welcome, by the way.  This is an excerpt from my personal memoirs, which don't actually exist and which I will never write because I'm not egotistical enough to burden the world with that monstrous waste of its collective time.  Well okay, I am just egotistical enough to write one, but I don't ever anticipate the world will recognize my genius soon enough for it to be monetarily beneficial to me, so what's the point right?  In the immortal words of Lucky Day, "No dough, no show."  And if you don't know that reference, shame on you; but I'm willing to forgive you, provided you go out immediately and rent Three Amigos.  You can thank me later.  Though it occurs to me that I am most likely the only person reading this, so "you" I guess would be me...in which case I get the reference because I've seen the movie many times and derive great enjoyment and satisfaction from its hilarity, so what do I have to forgive; nothing, right?  Right.

I have the exact resume you would expect from someone who just wrote the above paragraphs: lots of varied work experiences, more than adequate skills for just about anything, and I also happen to be fluent in Mandarin Chinese; so I should be pretty much a shoe-in for any job I apply for...except that I still don't have any sort of degree, so the only jobs I can apply for are entry level anyway.  Which means the pay pretty much sucks.  It also means, if you are a student of human nature or prescribe to Holmes-ian deductive reasoning theories, that the longest I've held down a single job is about five and a half months; I just round up to six on applications or when anyone asks because somehow I feel that those extra two weeks will be more impressive.  "Wait, you only worked there five and a half months?  Couldn't gut it out to six like an actual, respectable member of a functioning society, eh?"  Well yeah, obviously not.  Just don't ask to see my attendance record for that particular job...cause it looks pretty much like my attendance record for any other job I've "held down:" spotty at best, basically. 
Which brings me to my worst nightmare, which I have found reared its ugly head in every instance of my barely-gainful employment.  I keep having this vision of myself waking up one morning and discovering that I'm 45 years old and still employed at a company that basically amounts to Initech in Office Space: the superfluous, insufferable superiors; the vapid, content co-workers who apparently want nothing more out of their lives; the freaking cubicles and birthday cakes that you never really get.  Basically, just imagine the most soul-crushing environment possible.  Got it?  Good.  Cause I keep envisioning myself in that environment, then realizing that even though I want out of there as much as your neighbor whose parents sent him to the chubby-kid concentration camp spent the entire summer weeping for a chocodile, I am tied to it by three kids, a mortgage, two car payments, and a failed "business venture" I made back in college with my buddy Tony; because who expects a guy named Tony to know absolutely nothing about extortion and money laundering?  I didn't, at any rate.  The knowledge that I am trapped in this hell that I have dug for myself soon gives way to a sweet thought of release: I do, after all, own a hand gun; in the nightmare, not in real life.  What would I do with a handgun?  So eventually I give in to the release, and as I'm dying I have a flash of insight - courtesy of Collin Farrell and In Bruges: what if this is all death really is?  An entire eternity stuck in this freaking place, with the same freaking people, the same desk with the stupid Dilbert Cartoons that I don't really think are funny but feel obligated to put up anyway so my co-workers think I'm funny, the same inane pseudo motivational speeches by some other mid-lifer who is trying desperately to pretend he has something useful to say.  And I really hoped I wouldn't die...I really hoped I wouldn't die...

Wow, that's a pretty dark way to end my first blog-post-thing, right?  ...Hang on, I'm deciding on whether or not I want to try rewriting the ending.  ...No, I'm okay it.