Real-life factory stories!

Well, it's just five days left now. Only five, then I finally quit and don't have to see another phone manufactured for - with luck - the rest of my life or, without luck, til next summer.

But bloody hell, these four months have been something else to me. First three were actually mostly alright. I didn't have expectations when I came around, and it was essentially an easy thing to do without having to use the brain at all. Fair deal, ainnit? Well, apparently, not. First, there's the whole issue of brain going stale. For a while, I get to entertain the people around me, but in the months that elapse, things get old, and both myself and the rest are rather tired of it - and it's getting tougher and tougher to make things up. On the other hand, I'm not hired to entertain, I'm hired to do work, and making others happy isn't exactly high on my list of priorities. Unfortunately, making people happy - or, hell, waking any kind of emotions in them makes me last a bit longer, or so it'd seem, so I can't help but go on. And now my head's caught in an infinite loop, I can't make anything new up anymore and am losing my IQ points faster than I ever have. I literally feel going more and more stupid. This, of course, can't help but bring me a feeling of trouble - I am seriously worried about the state of my mind, and mind is one of the things about myself that I am (hopefully) deservedly proud about.

Of course, all the said things contribute to a developing state of depression that many of the readers have suddenly encountered (again), and, being depressed, I tend to revert to thinking of where I went wrong, which usually ends up really deep in the past. Amusing, really. In order not to be depressed now, I would have to go back in time and prevent myself from becoming pretty much everything I am today. To continue being "that Russian guy", as opposed to being "That whoa crazy Russian guy we know and love!"

But then, let's face it. I was tired of being alone. And when I say alone, I really do mean alone, because, while travelling is all good and nice, I lost about 98% of my friends through it - friendships don't blossom when not tended to, and I had no chance to tend to them at all - and made pretty much zero, because there's not really a point in making lasting relationships when you have no idea how long you are going to stay. So, until the times of high school, I literally had one friend hanging about, and that is a tad little, if you ask me.

Plus, I'd have to drop the "invincibility" pretense - which I can't do either, since it's a part of me as well. Why? Well, when you fear a drunk in your own house so much that you basically fear for your life, or life of someone else, up to the point of running to the police in pajamas across a wintery desert scene, later in your life you might not want to feel vulnerable ever again.


And guess what? This doesn't make me pity myself. It makes me mad. Very, very angry, at myself, and at everything around me. Or almost everything. I can't really put it to words. Possibly, my pride forbids me to acknowledge pity - but then again, I can't do anything about it. Pride is probably my biggest sin. Which, I guess, isn't the worst one out there.



There's the sharing, Seagale. Doesn't make me feel any better, yet, anyway. Probably looks whiny and stupid, too, but hey, it's my "blog" and I can look as awful as I want in it.