growing grumpy

After writing and shortly before posting this post below, I read my last post from a couple of months ago. It’s depressingly similar so don’t bother reading this if you read that. Nothing has changed so it seems I’m essentially having the same whinge using different words, accidentally plagiarising myself. Isn’t this blog fascinating?

I’ve been concerning myself lately. Even more than usual. I really don’t at all like who I’m being or what I feel like I’m becoming.

And what is that? You ask from your fancy swivel chair in your swanky high rise office, imaginary pen poised, appearing professionally indifferent as I lie back on an imaginary but highly comfortable couch.

It’s this: a bitter, grumpy, miserable man. A man who doesn’t see any sort of fairness or meritocracy. A man who sees conspiracies and cliques and ringfenced circles of people who publicly promote the virtues of open collaboration, but in reality practise none.

A man who feels constantly wronged and badly treated and unlucky in his professional life. A man who feels capable of achieving so much more, yet is utterly devoid of hope and infected with a quite cancerous level of cynicism which fizzes around inside and eats away at him on a daily basis. A man with a swelling chippiness about everything and everyone, stung by the world and a feeling that his ship has never come in.

It makes me less inclined to pretend to like people with whom I work. At Christmastime we are more obliged and inclined to pretend we are great friends with our colleagues. For me actually no thanks, fuck that.  I have nothing in common with them. They know very little about me because they never ask anything.  Why? I don’t know.  On the other hand I feel as if I know everything about them because my larger than average ears every word of the banal dross they spout at frequent intervals.

Do I want to pretend we’re friends and take part in Secret sodding Santa and eat and drink with them?  Do I bollocks.

At the weekend I saw an old friend first met through this identity several years ago. It was alarming how enjoyable I found it. My girlfriend commented that she enjoyed seeing me looking like I was having fun, I suppose because it was so rare. I was stimulated by the company and conversation in a way that is pretty unusual in my day to day, week to week, even month to month.  Meeting this friend reminded me that there are different types of people out there, people I feel more akin to, people I can share a joke with.  During these few hours – helped by the lubrication of several beers, no doubt – I was not such a miserable bitter man.

And yet in my day to day, I am.  I largely hate my work and at best feel indifferent towards most people there. For which I do feel guilty, like I should pretend somehow. Because they probably think me arrogant, how I disassociate from them. I have long since ceased being invited to the pub, which does sting a little as I might occasionally go for one. It’s a tricky one, when you are so different from a pack, smarter than most. You almost feel as if you should ignore it out of a weird empathy, descend to a base level and keep them company. But you don’t. Why should you feel ashamed for sticking to your guns and not giving much of a shit what they think of you?

You don’t want to stay there forever. You’ve been trying to get out for ages. It’s incredibly hard though. Your skill-set is one shared by so many people, and not that highly valued by C-Suite chiefs. They don’t much see or care for any difference in quality between what you produce and what someone a decade your junior produces. Because they won’t read or try to understand it. They just want to know it exists.

Even so, I do aspire to better and more and work hard towards other things, with little hope of actually getting anywhere meaningful. I halfheartedly apply for jobs, thinking that I stand no real chance, that you need to know someone from the outset to get a decent job at this point in a career. Applying for something cold will get you nowhere.

This time last year things were ostensibly worse, of course. Out of financial necessity and my flailing freelance operation, I was back at a call centre where I worked last as a student over ten years before. This Christmas my cashflow is better, healthier, less of an immediate worry. And I also hate my work slightly less, which has to be an improvement. It’s churning out content, marketing, PR, engaging with vacuous social nonsense online; not that demanding, but occasionally diverting, and not sitting in a call centre getting told to go away.

Still I am far from what I would call ‘happy’ or ‘content’,  Still I have no idea about my direction. It feels worryingly cyclical. I am never very happy. Never morbidly depressed either, please understand. While I don’t have what seems like the natural soothing balm of offspring into which I can plough my energy and hope, as many my age do, there are other things I take pleasure in, other ambitions I am working towards. Probably pointlessly.

Stumbling around in my day to day, I am rarely happy about where I am or where I’m going. I can’t really remember a time when I was.

I try telling myself to be positive, to lighten up. You never know what’s around the corner. You’re trying. You’re trying to create opportunities. Keep going. But I can’t help slouching back to bitterness, especially when greedy unfair nepotism gratuitously gyrates in front of you, which is hard to avoid, living where I do.

My face doesn’t fit, I know nobody important, nobody important backs me, I scare or threaten people, perhaps, I don’t smile enough. I have to just keep hacking away, being fucking miserable, bitter, trying to rein in the chippiness, trying to smile and be chipper for the sake of people around me who I do care about and trying to hope.

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