So, I’m writing this blog when I should be paying atention to my job here at the toy factory.  I’m sorry- I’m just not driven enough.  I mean, let’s get real.  I’m BORED.  I live in a part of the country that even mass shooters don’t give a shit about and I can’t convince myself THIS is “it”, ya know?  Jesus, did I really “quantum think” myself into this?  No, no, no.  You got the wrong girl.  I’m trapped in someone else’s alternate universe and this life- this whole sideshow of stream-or-consciousness- really ins’t mine.  Mine is where there are palm trees and blue skies, and no fuckin’ snow, I don’t care what anyone says.  In the midsts of this Fog of Fuck-It, I’m trying to find my passion again.  I know it’s there, it never left me, and that, Virginia, is why my incredibly weird FaceBook page has reader s and followers as far away as Malaysia and diverse as Iraq.

Am I making sense?  Probably not.  See, I developed a persona to host the company Facebook page.  Erla Mae Whippet.  She’s saving me, I think.  She’s saving me from being destined to  live a life of intellectually starved and culturally unattached mediocrity-much like the folks I work for.  Funny thing about those folks.  The ones that think they are in some higher bracket of esteem are the ones I don’t trust.  My friends are in the warehouse, surviving paycheck to paycheck, like so many of us do.  And if they’re not in the warehouse, they THINK like my friends in the warehouse.  I don’t trust the office types, I never have and even around here there’s the potential any moment for a mini Ides of March.

Erla Mae has saved me and allowed me to appreciate how good hearted and kind and funny my warehouse friends are.  I write about them because they have a story worth telling, a story that will NEVER come out in any reality show here.  These people are the heart and soul of this business and when Hollywood rolls in they’re treated like the six-fingered step kids you keep in the attic.

And maybe that’s what this rant is all about.  Disingenuity.  Is that a word?  It should be.  There are two kinds of people in my eyes: people that are always willing to help, share or just give you a kind word.  And then there are those that exploit that.  And I’ve got a front row seat for that show.  I stay up in my office (also known as the Bat Cave) because I don’t like how these good solid people are portrayed on film.  I stay in my office because I’ve got this technical job and no one is real sure what I do, but they are sure that they can’t do it.  Keeps me from being the next Reality Show Victim.  I’m tellin’ ya, in ten years that’s gonna be the big Ism that hits the talk show circuit; “Were you a victim of a reality show and have PTSD?”….you really think I’m wrong on this one?

Screw it.  I’m going back to the Island.  Gonna wait for Armageddon with my Wall Street Journal and Naveen Andrews and wonder why I ever complained about needing inspiration in the first freakin’ place……


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