As previously reported, I had a lovely birthday last Friday … and I am both glad and thankful for the memory of that day, because I’ve not had a particularly good one since.
Over the weekend, I … Christ, I don’t even remember. I know it largely involved trying (and, ultimately, failing in epic fashion) to not lose my shit all over my eight-and-a-half-year-old daughter, who for the past two weeks has slipped into a horrifically disconcerting, anxiety-induced regression back to age three … complete with nonstop, inconsolable crying and “No!”-ing and grunting and, most disturbingly, endless amounts of high-pitched, prolonged, banshee-like shrieking and screaming that has caused the rupturing of eardrums in both dogs and people alike in lands as far off as Reykjavik, Iceland. (And I would take the time to articulate for you just how sad and scared and upset and concerned for her this behavior has made me, but doing so will just accelerate my arrival at Camp Depression, so I will instead continue in my customary, flippant, asshole-like tone.)
Her continuous shrieking and screaming pierced my skull and skewered my brain with what felt like an electrified ice pick, and after repeated stabbings, I erupted last Sunday by non-ironically screaming
in a positively thunderous tone at a positively frightful volume. I sounded monstrous and terrifying and altogether inhuman … which, as you might imagine, was the perfect balm with which to soothe not only my already distraught daughter, but also my wife and son, both of whose nerves — much like my own — had long ago been stripped raw by Jayna’s incessant meltdowns.
In related news: Scaring the ever-loving fuck out of your entire nuclear family by turning into Godzilla is an excellent solution for those of you puzzling over how to make yourself feel like The Biggest Douche of All Time. Also? A spectacular aphrodisiac with which to arouse your spouse. No, wait: the opposite of that.
I’ve since apologized to all of them … and, to their credit, none of them have yet poisoned me or bludgeoned me to death in my sleep, which I think is a good sign.
In the wake of all that fun, Mother Nature dumped about a foot of snow on us Tuesday and, as noted in my previous entry, the blizzard transformed my usual 25-minute commute into a two-and-a-half-hour episode of “Man vs. Wild” … which sucked enough in its own right, but the magnitude of the day’s Suck Factor ballooned exponentially when, moments after returning home, I learned that my one close friend at work — the dude whom I credit with making bearable the 9-to-5 drudgery of the bleak, three-and-a-half-year detour my career has taken — is leaving next week for a new and better job.
To give you some idea as to how crucial he has been in helping me hold on to the few remaining shreds of my fluorescent-tinged, cubicle-shaped sanity: Zan, Jayna and Wonder Woman all responded to the news by hugging and consoling me.
I am, of course, happy for him … but his imminent departure is forcing me to look with renewed scrutiny and an increased sense of panic upon the massive disparity between what I’m doing for a living and what I want to be doing for a living. Still, I’m inclined to believe that his leaving ultimately is in my best interest; the less comfortable I am here, the more motivated I’ll be to finally make my escape. I hope.
Meanwhile, on a more positive note, this just arrived in my email:
Is it next Friday yet?