My stuntman days are numbered.

I’m not sure about the title; a more accurate description is procrastination station. I’m in one of those places where I’d just about choose any old thing to distract me from feeling this way. I feel terribly unsure, but compelled to spill my guts. I’m working. What that means is that I am wearing a rented uniform of black and royal blue. I have keys, a gold name tag, and a radio with a surveillance wire snaking up my shirt and into my right ear. I have a pair of folding sunglasses, also black and blue, in a pouch on the front right side of my belt. I won the sunglasses in auction on eBay. They are from the early 90′s. The frames  are Kevlar and the lenses mirror blue, not unlike an oil slick, but reflective electric blue just the same. I used to refer to all mirrored sunglasses as being bulletproof, so when people comment on these particular shades and I tell them they are bulletproof,  they take me literally. Nobody ever gets the joke but me.  So anyway, yeah I’m at work, and this nosy nose picking booger eating old bastard is sneaking up on me now. We have this loose policy of rotation, like in an intramural volleyball game. We gotta rotate every hour. Nobody ever knows where they’re supposed to be, so they are always coming across real abrasive,hovering in way to close inside my personal space asking where they are  like a gaggle of demented dingbats. I feel cornered. It’s really  rude, and is generally a lame, confusing system. The old man is always trying to speed up the process. It won’t be long now til he’s gone. They are forcing him to retire because he’s dropped the ball so many times. This will have to do for now. I hope you weren’t expecting too much.

Tags: art, belief, creative nonfiction, doubt, emotional sobriety, memoir, mental health, observation, sanity, work