The Trash Battle Pt. 1 / Four Days Until Seattle

The Skyscraper – Basement Trash Levels

Phil (The Third One) fires lasers from his phone at the relentless army of trash-compactor droids that are encroaching on him and his friends, during this scene that is more than a little influenced by Star Wars: A New Hope.

Behind him Theodora, Blondie, VeggieFem, DudeBro, Mitch, and Martha (but not that Martha), dog pile onto a particularly vicious organic mutant that’s emitting a toxic gas.

DudeBro shoves a grenade inside the mutant’s mouth.

The resulting explosion wipes out the droid army, but sends our heroes scattering in all directions.

—

Fairfax, Va – The Present

I guess the biggest thing going on in my life is this trip to see my brother for Thanksgiving. It’ll be my first time seeing him since he started working for this Giant Corporation.

You know me, I like to travel.

Besides that, I’ve gotta keep trying to figure out my next steps for St. Jane. Namely, how to get to a point where I can afford to hire regular writers and contributors. This little website is the only thing that inspires me to actually do multiple steps in a process.

Saturday night, I bought six beers and took them into the office, which was empty, obviously. I felt like applying for a new job. I felt like launching new writing on the website. I felt like doing something, because I was completely and utterly impotent regarding the emotions that were actually occupying my mindspace.

I got as far as a USAJobs resume builder. But then I got distracted tweeting music lyrics. I got through all my six beers. The Democratic debate started. By the time my attention came back to the resume, my login session had timed out and I was booted off the website.

Another Meta Post (But Not That Kind)

*echo* i give a shit because it’s in my nature… *echo*

I write to survive.

Sometime in the past three years, I finally demoted the dream of “making a living” from my writing from Plan B to Plan B-and-half to Plan C and now it’s finally in somewhere in the Plan E through M range.

A key part of this was probably the fallout from the 52 Weeks project. I had tied a lot of hopes and aspirations re: my writing career in DC to that. And then the Jerk Phil came in. He offended the person who had been most supportive of the whole endeavor and she split.

Before I knew it, 52 weeks had come and gone, I had failed at my top writing priority and I wasn’t the DC writer I thought I would be. I wasn’t even a DC person. Exiled to the suburbs. Exiled from daylight itself.

I have other dreams now. They involve writing, but they don’t involve selling my personal thoughts or my hallucinated characters to the world.

And yet, with only a smattering of blog posts in 2015 to show for it, here I am, at the end of the year. At the cusp of my favorite holiday and I still consider myself a “writer.” When roughly 45% of the words I write go to my uninspiring job and 45% go to my rambling, unstructured Twitter persona.

Even if I wrote regularly, there’s no guarantee that I’d hone the craft to be marketable. There’s a good chance of it, because Phil is constantly chasing the same myth he chastises others for internalizing. But then again, that very pursuit could frustrate the hell out of me. No, if I wrote more, I’d be a better writer, but not all certain to be someone who can live off his writing.

As it stands, I’m just a writer. I don’t even believe I’m a bad writer, though I certainly have the capacity to be.

Because, to me, there are people who aren’t writers. And these people typically label themselves as “bad writers.” But that’s not the case – they’re not writers at all. Their talent lies elsewhere.

November 9

To the extent that I’m aware of my public persona, it could be said that I make myself more controversial than I really need to be.

Wuh-oh, probably lost some readers who don’t want to put up with precocious bullshit there. But onwards.

I talk to a lot of self-aware people. It seems like it’s in vogue to wear some faults on your sleeve.

I’m so awkward.

I’m really bad at math.

Oh my god, I have NO self-control.

And then I meet the people with the darker self-definitions.

Sometimes I hate myself.

I’m terrible at everything and I have no talents.

My life is a mistake.

Actually, I hate myself all the time.

I meet these people and I want desperately to have them look into my eyes and realize that I think they matter. That I think there’s so much they could do and it’s worth changing the circumstances to help them accomplish it. It’s worth moving heaven and earth, if we could. It’s worth trying to change how humans have operated for millennia. It’s worth it, it’s worth it, it’s worth…

But one of the hard truths I learned this year is that oftentimes people don’t want to hear it. They don’t need to hear that. They don’t need to hear that they have potential or that little ol’ Phil believes in them. They want something I just can’t provide. And I still believe, deep down, that every person can find some…(sorry about this) Quantum of Solace, if they can find the courage to explore. And if the world weren’t so unforgiving and inflexible.

But I don’t provide that with a short set of words.

I give a shit because it’s in my nature. But the actual helping bit? That’s the part I have to work on.

—

*echo*  I need people to tell me to do something about it, and more importantly, to do it well. *echo*

Autumn, Chapter 2: The Twitter Problem Again

My brother’s birthday is on Wednesday. That’s also the autumnal equinox. That’s also the planned end to my Twitter break. And the start to a year that I never planned to happen. Another fall-to-fall begun at this nocturnal job.

But this chapter will be about Twitter and social media. One of those annoying come-to-Jesus social media confessionals.

If I ever do a complete history of Phil the Pill and Twitter, remind me to link it here.

But I sort of get hung up on that each time I discuss Twitter, so let’s skip it for now. Instead, let’s discuss Twitter in 2015.

Twitter in 2015 has been, in a word, stressful. I can say Twitter in 2014 was a mixed blessing, bringing me friends who helped me through a period of isolation due to my job. But 2015 saw the dissolution of many of those friendships as I finally passed the 1,000 follower mark I so coveted. And it wasn’t really because my behavior radically changed. I think people just honestly got fed up with me once they really got to know me.

Sad face.

Usually, when I am really active on social media and burning bridges, I make up for it by drawing some substantial new friendships from the experience of talking through the latest worldwide drama. But this year has been different for me. Between presidential primary politics, Rachel Dolezal, Kim Davis, and the almost complete gamification of news sites on social media, Twitter has somehow morphed into a microcosm of the real world for me.

As in, it’s kind of heartless. It’s cold. It’s manipulated. And it’s too big to control.

So I’m stuck in a dilemma where some of the best friendships of my adult life are still mostly accessible through this network maintained and constantly upgraded by this private corporation. One that’s increasingly populated by more and more private corporations and wealthy interests.

The Last Two Weeks of Summer. Finale.

The man who loaded Barbara Ann onto a tow truck was about my age, but had already been a bull rider, a soldier, a father, a husband, and the owner of his own company. He was also driving Professor B and I back to Northern Virginia on nearly a day without sleep. He rarely gets to see his kid or spend time with his wife.
Some day I hope to be able to tell the whole story about Tyler and the trip up from Virginia Tech just in time to see my team lose. It’ll be altered by memory and context, but it’s a good one.

But I don’t get paid to write. I don’t get paid to do the things I’d like to do.

This fall isn’t going to be as easy I’d like. But I’d like to focus on changing my situation for the better. I’m learning pain and loss will happen whether you play it safe or whether you risk things. And I’m not going to let my fear of losing more keep me from trying.

See you soon.

The Last Two Weeks of Summer. Finale. Part II.

I went over to the Christiansburg house and saw a big “For Rent” sign on the property. I walked up and found one cat hanging out by the garages. It was Joan, the daughter cat.

She recognized me or at least was sociable in the hopes that I would let her in. She had a water bowl that was full and an empty can of food on the back porch. It seemed like someone was taking care of her.

But I couldn’t find Sofia.

Staring out into the tall grass, I felt a sadness welling up. We never asked for Sofia and Joan. We literally found Sofia and her litter in a hole next to the basement. My parents were never settled enough to take on the responsibilities of pets. They couldn’t take the cats with them when our landlord lost the property and the bank kicked them out.

I don’t feel like they did anything morally wrong.

But even when we just live our lives, there seem to be miserable moral consequences. It’ll get colder soon….

I guess if I can’t get them adopted, I’ll call the shelter nearby about picking them up and trying to get them adopted themselves. Even if the shelter puts them to sleep, that’s gotta be more humane than letting them freeze to death, right?

Joan followed me farther out as I walked to my car. My heart hurt a little. I picked her up and put her near Barbara Ann’s passenger door. Maybe…maybe I could….

Then another car came rolling down the street. Spooked, Joan ran away.

“You okay?” The neighbor asked me through his open window.

“I’m okay,” I answered.

I took another look at that “For Rent” sign. I thought about what I’d done Friday night. I thought about the confusing relationships of this summer. I thought about all the people I meant to reconnect with, but who I felt I had abandoned for the sake of making this middle class existence work.

I’m okay. But I’d like to be more.

The Last Two Weeks of Summer. Finale. Part I.

My name is Phillip Santiago M_____ and I am at my happiest when I’m on a road trip, in a coffee shop, listening to music.

I’m also a little foggy right now. A little less manic and desperate than when I was in college, chugging lattes and intensely trying to shape the Internet to my will. I’m older. And I’m okay with it.

Now. To business.

My biggest problem right now is my job. My second biggest problem is my inability to decide what the best path out of my job could be.

I’m an overnight media analyst. The job involves me getting to work at around midnight, working until 9 in the morning, getting some errands done and then being in bed by 2 pm. The longer I do this, the more long-term harm I risk to my lifetime sleeping patterns. I increase my risk of cancer, diabetes, and general sleep-deprivation.

The ability to focus. The ability to form long-term memories. The general energy necessary to handle normal day-to-day stress. I feel myself less capable of all of these human features.

Then there’s simply the fact that my employers don’t believe in the things I believe in. They believe in money. So every day I work for them is a day I’m not helping somebody actually work on some of the solutions I feel we desperately need.

I didn’t get $36,000 in debt to do this.

So that leaves me with some options:

1. Find a new job
2. Go to grad school full time
3. Launch my own company
4. Be a squatter in my family’s house and starve to death

There’s a few problems with option number 1. There’s the classic Charlie Day response:

And to be a little more specific, I find the entire process of applying for jobs kind of soul-crushing. More than anything, I don’t want to lock myself into an environment I don’t belong in again. I wish the work I’ve done for other employers could result in some sort of financial cushion for me to volunteer, or freelance, or network in an attempt to find like-minded employers. But, no. I’m not a financial saint. I spend money. I live in an expensive area. What I don’t spend or save for a rainy day, I pay my student loan holders.

So I need to go through the sad process of trying to sell myself to people who may want to use me and generally not for the goals I’d like to accomplish.

Hmm.

Wait, now I’m thinking about my cats living on the land my parents used to rent.

I’d like to go check on them. Be back later.

The Last Two Weeks of Summer

Internal assessment: I’ve only had four sips of this coffee.

I could be more awake. I could be more alert.

I shove a few more Andy Capp’s Hot Fries into my mouth. I feel the heat from the spice. It’s not my favorite feeling, but I enjoy the underlying taste all the same.

How many calories is this?  I wonder

As I wonder this, I hear another crack shiver through the interior of my sliding glass door. Which means somebody has gotten through.

I swivel my chair around and come face to face with…

18-year-old Phil.

Picture him but without this shit-eating grin on his face.

“Calories?!” he yells. “Really???”

——

This was my philosophy 9 years ago:

As long as I wasn’t being “excessive,” the karmic balance should keep me doing okay. That meant I could do things like…eat three square meals a day, snack a bit, and do no exercise besides walking to my college classes. And that was fine for a while.

What I resented at age 18 was the tyrannical implications of the people who were already aware of how metabolisms work. The whole concept of having to be mindful about those three meals, and mindful about those snacks. Mindful about how sedentary I truly was.

Because I didn’t fully grasp that these were the years of plenty. These were the years of being a relatively healthy steer on the meat farm of college. Right then, at 18, I was ignorant, I was blissful.

And I was still pretty angry, come to think of it.

Poetry, I guess

There’s homeless and then there’s being without a home.

We aren’t the poor souls holding signs at busy intersections

(God, have I seen so many more homeless people in the past three years)

But that’s not our situation

We have roofs over our heads
We have food in our stomachs
We even gain weight
We shower with regularity
We are blessed

But we still don’t have a home

And I guess my question now is,

Would I know how to live if I ever found somewhere I could rest?

Or would I rather just keep on floating,

Lonely and frightening as it is?

Twitter Break, Summer 2015 – Chapter Two: Not Enough Minerals

“Take a moment to assess your situation.”

I’m on a couch, staring up at the ceiling. Funnily enough, I had just listened to a podcast about this couch. Well, couches like it. Couches in psychoanalysts’ offices.

Wait, was this guy a psychoanalyst?

“Why are you here?”

I’m here because I was playing a video game.

I don’t even play video games. Certainly not this video game. I’m bad at it. I mean, I thought I was. Then I kept winning the levels over and over again. Granted, I was playing on a relatively low difficulty. But not the lowest one.

It just felt so good to win.

—-

In my dream, I was talking to my boss about today’s project. I can’t remember if there was drama. I can’t remember if there was anxiety. I just know I was in the office while I was sleeping, and then I woke up, without an alarm. I had slept six hours. And now I was two hours late for work.

It was 1:30 in the morning.

—-

No one ever really asks me how I ended up here. They ask me why the type of work I do has to be done during the third shift. They ask me if it’s difficult. They ask me if I’m tired. And then they get to know me and they stop asking me things altogether. They figure that I, like them, am just making the best out of a bad situation. And I am. They’re right.

But no one’s like, “Hold on a second. What bizarre set of circumstances has you waking up at 11 o’clock at night to go to work? I mean, even for this society, that’s a little twisted. Did something go seriously wrong?”

No one asks that. I guess they think it would be rude.

More likely, they just don’t care.