Trigger

Okay, so I have to write about something tonight – that’s what I’m telling myself – but I have no idea what that something is supposed to be, so I’ll just make it up as I go along. That’s a rough haul, man. It’s rough knowing you want to write something when you’ve really got nothing on your mind and nothing you’re particularly fervent about at the time you’re sitting down to supposedly write something for “public consumption.”

The hell of it is, there’s a lot going on in the world right now. There’s tons, yet all I’m worried about is getting my rent and utilities paid for another month – which, I suppose, is what everyone’s worried about at present. The trouble with this line of thinking lies in the fact that it’s not conducive to getting anything done other than what you have to get done, i.e., getting up in the morning, getting coffee in your system, and going to work. There’s other stuff around, but I’m kind of blind to it lately.

There exists a rather odd and uncomfortable disconnect between what I have to do and what I want to do. I know that same disconnect happens to everyone, but there’s a whole cause-effect scenario missing in my case where I’ve recently become incapable of understanding what I’ll regret not doing if I don’t, in fact, do it.

For example, I’ve been asked to work – to bounce – this Friday. The money promises to be very good, but I don’t want to work, so I probably won’t work. I’ll feel great about this on Friday night while I’m doing whatever instead of standing at someone’s door looking like a hemorrhoidal wooden Indian, but I’ll wake up on Saturday morning wondering why I took the night off.

Logically, I know I’ll inevitably go through this whole enjoyment-regret scenario, but I’m sure I’m taking Friday night off anyway. I just know it. I gave myself a day’s grace period to talk myself into it – my standing essentially reserves the spot – but I’m not working. It’s not happening. My whole week now revolves around one or two nights of bouncing, which is how I know it’s probably time to stop doing it altogether.

There’s irony in my lack of complaint. I’m not complaining about bouncing. There’s nothing hard about it, and there are many things I could be doing – or that I could be forced to do – that are far worse. I don’t complain about bouncing anymore. I just go do it.

No, the complaint here is one of inaction. It’s a complaint rooted in a sudden ignorance of the consequences of my inability to pull the trigger on something as stupid as booking myself for a night of something I’m capable of doing on autopilot.

Of course, the solution is to just tell the club I’m working and shut the fuck up about it. This would force me to show up. It would put money in my pocket. It would eliminate my Saturday morning lament. It would get me back in the mode of doing things I don’t want to do. It would break this pattern of “class cutting” that I’ve fallen into of late.

I don’t do this in any other area of my life – just bouncing, which I justify as acceptable because bouncing is not natural. It’s not something people should do for extended periods of time, so I think it’s perfectly reasonable to burn out on it after a while. Of course, the disciplinarian in me calls bullshit on this because nobody’s forcing me to do anything. Bouncing is something I’ve chosen, and something I continue to choose, albeit at the bare minimum of nights required to maintain some semblance of part-time employment in the business.

Still, there’s conflict. My reluctance to make a move in either direction – to commit, or to just drop the side jobs altogether – continues to baffle the shit out of me.

I’d rip off the Band-Aid, but I’m afraid I’d start bleeding again.