Well, I’ve finally reached the tail-end of a nasty-ass work bender, and similar to the software project I found myself engulfed in at the close of 2008, this one was a doooozie, my friends.  An intense month of unrelenting stress and long days and nights in the office,  weekends in front of the computer,  mornings of waking up with that familiar sense of dread and rolling out of bed to immediately check the Blackberry and learn what new frustrations awaited, sitting in my car in the office parking garage thinking, “Man, I’m not in the mood for another day of this,” saying “fuck” way too often and way too loudly in front of coworkers…

And then…  it’s all over.  And all of us in the office who were growing more and more angry with each other, more and more pissy and impatient, suddenly found ourselves looking around, eyeballing the cubes and computers, our scowls slowly dissolving, thinking, “Sooo… that’s it?”

And almost immediately, I’m feeling like Ronin, a samurai without a master, a man without a mission.  Lost. The adrenaline diminished, the passion gone. Two deep breathes and then a “Now what?”  And then I’m looking for the next stressful project to dive into and get tossed around by like a trailer in a tornado.   The next project where I can get myself more and more riled up, bitter, cursing the deadlines and misplaced planning.   And through it all, I’ll think, “Bones, you have got to get a life, my man.”

Taking a dude with obvious workaholic issues, an absolute lack of self-control, and no wife or girlfriend to scream, “Get your ass home!”, and dumping him into a crisis-project is like tossing a fat kid into a pit of snakes and Skor bars.  He’s gonna thrash about madly, grabbing hold of anything within paws-reach, gorging on it.  Fang holes covering his body, chocolate smeared across his mouth, the maniac continues to consume, a mad-race to eat himself to death before the snakes can do it for him.   Like pouring fish food into the tank, watching the fish swim to the surface to feed on the scraps, then pouring more into the tank, watching the fish feed, pouring more into the tank, watching the fish feed, pouring, feeding, pouring, feeding, pouring, feeding… until the greedy self-destructive bastard floats belly up to the top, fat, happy, and fuckin dead.

As this year is coming to a close, I find that my hair has gotten stringy and unkempt, my wisdom teeth are hurting because I refused to take the time to visit the dentist, and I’ve just noticed a couple gray hairs poking out of my beard.  2009 was my worst year so far in terms of almost non-stop work benders, and to be frank, there’s no one to blame for that but myself.  Shame on me.  Shame on sexy-ass me.   My boss would tell me to go home, my co-workers would tell me to go home, but I’d just keep at it.  Work work work work consume consume consume.  No self-control.  And through it all I’d think to myself, with my characteristic sense of self-serving martyrdom, “man, I really just want to work at a bar.”

Workaholism, if that’s what is, is pretty lame.  Like any “holism”, is not a disease, it’s not something to pity, to sympathize with, to “understand.”   Nah, it’s just selfish behavior.   Just putting yourself above everyone else, doing what you want without regard to others.  It’s selfish.  And I’ve got no problem with being selfish – it’s one of the luxuries of being single.  But should I ever whine about having to work too much, well, shame on me.   That shit’s my fault.

One afternoon back when I was in middle-school, me and a couple buddies were hanging out in the Langer’s front yard. The Langer had a huge soccer net that we had stretched across the lawn.  After much prodding, Leo and I eventually convinced Langer to lay down on the net and roll himself up in it.  Soon, he found himself trapped, as the strings tangled together and tightened, immobilizing him.  A scrawny, struggling moth in a spider web.  Leo and I, taking advantage of our buddy’s inability to defend himself, began to kick the Langer, spit on him, pour water on him.  A couple of little punks picking and prodding their good friend, because they could.  And because that’s what shitty little kids do.  The Langer soon grew genuinely pissed off, and when he finally released himself from his confinement, he was ready to throw fists.   Dude was angry as hell.  Things eventually cooled down, and we all took a minute to chill out.   Until Leo announced, “I’ll get in the net.”   Langer and I looked at each other, then over at the guy who had just watched his buddy get tortured and humiliated, and had then consciously made the decision to put himself in that exact same position.  We let him wrap himself up in that net, of course.  And then proceeded to kick him, spit on him, and pour water on his head.

I remember thinking,  “Now why in the hell would that guy purposely tangle himself up like that, knowing it was just going to lead to an ass-kicking?”

I could ask myself the same thing.

Ahhhhh, well that was therapeutic.

But enough about me, let’s talk about me.   Does this tank top make me look fat?