Lately the only fuel motivating me to climb the stairs of 9, er, 10:30 -6 has been ambivalence. I’m just not going to care. And unlike every other ambition that I’ve overthought to the point of exhaustion, overworked until the hammer I furiously wield builds my project to the point of destroying it, “not caring” requires “not trying.”
It’s the complete absence of feeling. If I have to tell myself “My desk neighbor might be blasting Sum 41 [yeah, really] so loud my DJ quality headphones can’t block it out, but I don’t care,” that’s not how it works. It’s just like “trying” to relax. There is no “try.” You just don’t do, you dig?
But there are things that I just can’t prevent from stirring my emotions. And as much as I strive to surpass shallowness, there are just some parts of Palm Beach that you can’t take out of the girl, causing me to comfort myself with rewards superficial that surprise me with a “good news! Package has shipped early,” email, where the package to-arrive becomes The Very Most Looked Forward To Event of the day until the Universe delivers a stinging blow reminding me that I’m not paid to think or care and I should just keep my head down and my emotions even lower.