Saturday, June 18, 2011

Every single Friday.

My excuses for non-attendance at Friday night drinks are getting more and more pathetic, as I work my way towards an honest ‘I don’t want to’. I’d actually rather stay at work, staring at a blank computer screen, than follow these people to a bar and stare blankly into a warming beer for long enough to justify leaving. I’ve known them long enough to have to talk about something other than work, when not at work. And long enough to know that there’s nothing to talk about with them because we have no common ground beyond it. And no common ground in our attitude towards it either, because I’m incapable of feigning excitement toward strategies and frameworks anymore.

The more capable I am of small talk, the less inclined I am to bother with it. My time away from work and study is so limited, I’m not going to spend it with painstakingly idle banter. All I want to do is go home to my heater, my D and my little dog, make some dinner and do everything or nothing. I’m sick of making excuses to boring people, who pity me and my boring lifestyle, and have no idea how boring and claustrophobic I find theirs. But I’m still waiting for to reach the point where I’m not affected by their apologetic half-smile-and-shrug.

I would rather go home and study, take my little dog out for a walk, go to the gym, do anything that gives me a sense of purpose and restores some of the lifeblood that drains out of me while at work. I don’t like drinking, and I like it even less when doing it with people that alienate and intimidate me, who actually find pleasure in it.

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