(from the game: Earth No More by Recoil Games and 3d Realms)
“This poor fellow’s weary and confused. Probably doesn’t know what he’s taking about.” That’s a line they use on the radio station I listen to. They use it all the time; I have no idea if they mean it to mean something, or if it just fits into their idea of being odd, hip, and different. Generally I do like the music they play. But, the description does seem to apply to myself.
I’ve given up on the anti-depressant. The doctor who prescribed it didn’t really know what to expect. The psychologist I consulted told me to give it six months. Five months is long enough. I can’t see it really doing much. My ennui persists. Directionless, purposeless, alienated and alone. I’ve become very settled in my new persona. I still pick at the guitar; told the teacher I’m ready for more lessons. I still hike in the mountains; I’ve gotten better at the long hikes, not feeling so much pain, and recovering more quickly afterwards. But, I will still retire from work in less than two months now.
I’ve initiated the paperwork, notified all that need to know. I still can’t stand working there any more. I can hardly stand being there when I am working. Once the moving everything from one building to another and getting the new lab in place was over, my spurt of energy drained away. There was a lot to do; working with an electrician to get a dedicated line of backup power, and having the place cleaned and painted. Looks nice now. It was a pit before the move. Managed to convince people to move all the old crappy stuff out and store it in an empty lab space. Surplused out anything else. It’s a nice place to work now, almost as nice as where I was, but smaller. Now the department chairman wants to move another lab-full of equipment and supplies in with us. It will make it cramped and hot and unbearable to work in, if we can even get it all to fit. Makes me really glad I’m leaving. Can’t leave fast enough. On top of that I’m being forced to raise prices on the services I provide because the medical school Dean wants to use the little money he’s been giving us out of the tobacco settlement fund for other things. I charge people a good rate for our services, but with any increase, we will lose business. I’ve cut all the expenses to the bone already, gotten the cheapest supplies I can, and still the Dean wants “his” money. Unfortunately, the researchers there expect DNA services to be available at a reasonable rate. When business falls off next year, and the lab runs an even bigger deficit, the lab will be closed, and people will bitch and gripe and have to go out of state for DNA research services. It will cost even more, and will make researchers think twice about bringing any more grants into the place, but, hey, what do I know? I’m not a great, powerful Dean. He gets to put up new buildings and claim credit for expanding the work of the University. The work is teaching and research, but research is going to suffer. He could care less. Blames everything on the economy. I’m out of there soon. I keep trying to make them see the importance of keeping the lab around. I put a lot into it, and it will die now.
It is so similar to the failed marriage, the work on the old house. I put a lot into those and now I’ve nothing to show for it. Nothing to show for my life at all. A small pension. Might be enough to survive on, but I had so much more in mind before. “I don’t care no more,” Phil Collins sings on the radio. “No more, no more, no more.” “No, no.”
Time to move on.
(Edd China’s motorized sofa, powered by a Mini 1300 cc engine)