**Originally posted on Myspace on December 8th, 2008*
Occassionally at work, when we’re slow and my mind starts percolating, I come up with some pretty good blog ideas. Because my mind is a sieve and hardly anything stays put in there, I write down these ideas on scraps of receipts and wedge them into my pocket for later. My boss Dave noticed this one time, and I asked me about it. I told him about my habit of brainstorming on the job and he asked me what I had just written down.
“It’s funny how some people give advice when they are in no way qualified to,” I read. And then the irony began. He agreed with me, and then launched into this lecture about how peoples’ ignorance and arrogance blind them to the wants and desires of those around him. I wanted him to stop talking to me. I desired to beat him with a sock full of nickels. On and on he went about “those people who think they aren’t too drunk to drive” and “those people who think they’re invincible.” I chuckled to myself, realizing that he wasn’t even close to understanding what I meant, and went back to work.
Dave is a pretty good guy if you’re a personable intelligent person. Luckily I inherited both of those genes, and Dave and I have never really had a problem with one another. It’s funny though, because he can be perfectly classified as someone who not only gives advice when they’re not qualified, but gives advice without asking. He walks around Fuddruckers like he owns the place, (Ok, he’s got me there) and just oozes arrogance out of each pore of his 6’6″, 230 frame. He hates that “president with an asshole for a mouth” (Bush) and “those towel-headed sand n****** over in the Middle East.” Mormons, Gays, Jehovah Witnesses, the man is the posterchild for bigotry. Because the guy could snap my neck with a twitch of his wrist, and also because he signs my paychecks, I’m pretty much forced to agree with him on most issues. It’s hard to hate a guy for being self-righteous when he lets you hold his sniper rifle though. Oh man, that thing was cool.
And don’t get me wrong, I mean I like the guy. We talk football and girls and he’s taught me a lot, not only about business, but about managing people. More than once his lessons have come in handy with my Fantasy Football roster or the poker table.
Theoretically, what happens when you never get to be with the person you were meant to be with? Like what if fate and predetermined outcomes and destiny were mere guidelines for us, and it was up to us to set the wheels and motion. All we have to do to be with our soulmate is coast, and our lives will intersect and everything will be for the best. Yet some people derail themselves, grinding their train to a halt on the unforgiving unknown. The unpaved road. Or maybe not unpaved, rather unpreferred. See: Spinsters, crazy cat ladies, and the lonely man in the plaid coat who comes in to Fuddruckers every Sunday for breakfast. Classic breakfast, eggs basted, bacon, English muffin, and a coffee. Back to my point though. What cosmic consequences ensue when you mess with that track–be it through your own weaknesses, doubts, insecurities? What if someone derails it for you, long before you even get there, inadvertently pulling that lever that switches the train tracks? It’s no secret what massive damage a seemingly subtle movement can do. How cool would it be to view different versions of yourself based on those subtle decisions that at first glance mean nothing?
Holding certain people to higher standards than others is an inevitable, yet unwieldy monster. It stems from caring, and sort of mutates into this twisted, judgmental inferno that threatens to corrode friendships and family ties. When people fall short of these expectations (and all people do), there’s a big depressing, resigned sigh. As if you expected nothing but absolute, unconditional perfection from them–forever. What’s the consolation prize for them losing? You receive an inflated ego and an I-told-you-so condescendence seed planted in the back of your mind.
P.S. J*** In My Pants. Subpar. No Lazy Sunday, that’s for damn sure.