My Savage Ulcer

On an almost annual basis, I apply for a different position within my company. I do this in an effort to lessen my stress load. Ideally, I'd like to not reach the ripe age of 46, fall over while cutting the grass one day, with a heat stroke, and a mild heart attack. By then, I wager that I'll have ulcers the size of footballs in my gut, I'll curse regularly, and I'll hate every child that walks across my lawn. I'll probably drink my liver into a tiny, shrivelled, hate filled sac of bile, that filters nothing but violence, and piss into my blood stream. I'll wear a fisherman's hat, but I'll hate myself for wearing it. I'll swear at passing cars and hate loud sounds. By then, I'll have sold my instruments in a fit of rage at my lack of accomplishment. I may have children by then and I'll put on a good face for them, but since I'm bottling my anger, it'll only increase the size of my ulcers. The stately age of 46 is not looking so bright.

To thwart my impending doom, I try to find work that would hopefully lower the size of my future ulcer. Maybe something where idiots don't get idiot all over my face, trying to understand simple concepts. Maybe a position where people don't ask the same question five times expecting a different answer. Hell, I'd just settle for a job where people didn't think it was acceptable to ask a question, wait five seconds, and immediately proceed to talk over me. Here, dear customer, is a jug of SHUT THE FUCK UP juice. Drink deep.

I annually apply and annually get declined. This year, I applied for yet another lateral transition within the company. I interviewed the fuck out of this position. I had quick and effective answers for every question asked of me. I really thought this through. I left them laughing, which I always take as a positive sign. Clearly it was not effective enough. Instead of hiring me, they are in all likelyhood going to hire my mouth-breathing neighbor, who has to have every directive repeated to her at least fifteen times before finally feeling brave enough to take her own initiative. The primary difference in this situation has nothing to do with any statistical difference between myself and anyone else, as the facts can easily prove themselves. No, as I understand it, the difference is considerably more superficial, more along the lines of what hangs between my legs, a term I use loosely I may add, and how I use this to piss upright.

It infuriates me to feel this way, that my gender has an influence in creating bias in others. It's reasonable to believe that people share in this bias or that some people hate white people or males or blondes or whatever. I realize that prejudice knows no bounds. I also realize how absurd it sounds for a white male to bemoan his position in life. I'm not sure where I missed the boat on privilege, at least in using that privilege to improve my lot in life. I have an awful, anger-inducing, rage powering job, that may eventually cause me to self-combust. Clearly I am the constant in each situation, but when I present myself as amiable, confident, and knowledgable, especially when I prove these conceits by showing my dedication to education, and by progressively handling more responsibility with less recognization yet still fail to produce any positive rewards from this, well, I'm at a loss for words.

So tonight my friends, I will drink. I'll toast a future liver that is fully functional, and capable of filtering the most putrid of rum into pure water. I'll toast to my ulcers and wish them an early, but painless demise. Mostly I'll be commiserating my many opportunities lost. I imagine that as my thirtieth birthday grows nearer, I may find plenty of opportunities to revisit this trend with more regularity. I'll toast to looking up, not down.