Sometimes I get Ridiculous…Follow @gaijinass
It’s October uh…wait what’s the date today? 11th. Okay. So it’s October 11th and I have no job.
I have a nice shiny new visa but I’m jobless as it gets. What’s worse is that for some horrible reason, I’m effectively nonchalant about all of it. No job? Things could be worse.
The resumes have been sent and contacts have been made. What more can one man do? Turn to a life of crime? Nope. After all my years on this wacky planet I have learned a few lessons, one of which is that I am not suited to be a hardened criminal. Frankly speaking, it’s just too much work.
I am the proverbial gray man. A fantastic jack of all trades and bard extraordinaire. I have some things I do better than others, and although some might toss around phrases like “under achiever” I like to think of myself as a sort of modern day Rennaisance man. Well read, well rounded, a man of various passions and someone that can either punch you in the face, cook a soufle or quote Churchill as the moment demands.
I’m still unemployed though.
This leads me to the point of todays little outburst here: Satanic rituals.
Not really. That’s far too committed for my tastes. Actually I am going to complain and wax quasi-intellectually about half measures and how irritating that shit is.
Wait, no that won’t work either. Half measures, although disgusting, are reality. For 99.9% of the population anyway.
No I think all I can do right now is bitch and moan about how utterly ridiculous my life is. Two weeks ago, I was locked in the Japanese detention center watching other detainees lose hundreds, even thousands of dollars in an afternoon playing 21 in the back room casino the Filipino boys had set up in “I” wing. 30 people packed into the room, everyone screaming like lunatics as cash flew all over. People were losing all the money they had, becoming penniless, only to win back that and more when some other poor chump gambled away the cash for his plane ticket back to Ho Chi Minh. His plane ticket back to Ghuang Zhou. His plane ticket back to Bogota. His plane ticket back to Dhaka. Absolute mania.
Out in the hallway, more people lined up with noses pressed against the glass and bet amongst themselves regarding who they thought was going to win or lose any given hand. All the while a young fillipino lad stood in the hallway shouting “Irrashaimase!” at the top of his bloody lungs, all the while providing updates to the whole wing on how much time they had left to come and get some of the action: “Only 20 minutes left this morning!”
Then, only a month before that I was sitting on a tatami floor in Yamanashi watching three of my highschool students, Misa, Yuka and Kimiko, draw smiley faces and heart marks all over my feet and toes at the English Club summer camp I worked at for three days.
The next day, the next morning, I was under lock and key on the 10th floor in Shinagawa. Now, today, I’m sitting in my new room in Ikebukuro. Half my gear is still in boxes. I have no job and between sending resumes I’m going through all the handicap information I can find because Sunday I’m off to the horse races and hey- got to pay the rent somehow.
This all isn’t to say I’m not feeling good. That’s the point; I feel great. Just add some extra stupid-gravy on top of the steamy pile of nonsensical ridiculousness that is my life. I feel positively wonderful today. I just don’t get it. I can recognize the good things in my life, but those should only more starkly contrast with the problems I’m facing. But somehow, I’m not worried.
I read before that professional gamblers eventually become immune to bad luck. Well, I’m not much of a card player but I am one hell of a gambler when it comes to life. And I’ve been doing it so long, now I just feel immune to it all. Oh yeah I have no job? So what. Something good will come around. Oh my girlfriend (both of them; they both found out about each other) now hates me? (…and have become best friends with each other) Hey that’s OK! I’ll meet someone else or maybe it’s a signal that I need some “Me” time. The Government locks me up and tries to kick me out of the country? No big deal. I’m a refugee now. The woman that is the mother of my child and I have so little in common it’s like we’re filming a reality TV version of “The gods must be crazy”? So what; our kid is incredibly good looking, funny and an athlete. I’m so destitute I literally have to go gamble to pay for my rent? It’ll be a fun day out with the boys, and the park there at the racetrack is really quite pleasant.
It all feels totally normal, but when I re-frame it and look at it from any sort of logical view point, it’s absurd, and all this is just the tip of a big fantastically improbable iceberg which I call “My life”.
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