I cannot stop thinking about this past Wednesday’s episode, which is entitled “Under Pressure,” of Modern Family.  The overall viewing was still genuinely funny, but the tone of the episode is downtrodden in the sense that the characters’ quirks were explored.  This is not going to be my analyzing the episode and everyone’s behavior, because this is not my field nor what my blog-about-nothing is about.  These words shouldn’t psychoanalyze the characters and everything about them.  However, the “Under Pressure” title is appropriate.

There is much self-criticism in the episode.  For  those who watch the show, the characters that we’ve grown to know and love displayed valiant moments of weakness due to stress taking its toll on them.  Alex has a meltdown at her 16th birthday that stems from age and academics; her seeking a therapist shows her acknowledgment of being weak.  Manny and Luke are running headfirst into puberty.  Jay kicks himself, learns a lesson about criticizing someone in the past.  Cam is overly concerned with performance anxiety, making impressions on others.  Gloria and another mom vie for popularity, and this stems from money issues.  A conflict between Mitch and his greener neighbor turns dysfunctional and sideways.  Claire realizes her independent middle child, who she doesn’t have to worry about, creates great anxiety for her in the grand scheme of things.  The hug between Alex and Claire is an appropriate last minute crescendo.  

Usually, the writing acknowledges the serious issues but quickly pokes at it to make the situation humorous.  However, this episode didn’t play the humor up as done in the past.  It gave me hope for the show in the sense that the characters, especially Alex, showed growth from her normal predictable character.  She displayed her personality valiantly, but resisted typically at first; the resistance, the denial is truth for a teenager.  We’ve all been there.

It speaks well, considering that we all have several moments in our lives that relate to such situations of not succumbing to faithfully admitting that we are fallible and vulnerable.  We don’t want to want to come across that way.  We dismiss that perceived human quality that validates our weakness.  However, when everything is played out, it’s–on an objective level–actually beautiful.  We can admit that we were wronging ourselves and others.

Heating Up

Welcome to the middle of what is identified as a nervous breakdown.

It just holds truth in that within the past 24 hours, I’ve gone through a self-hatred and vendetta of facing the reality of making mistakes and not being cool with my doing so.  Like Orlando Bloom’s character in Elizabethtown, I made a mistake that cost me. Instead of millions and millions of dollars, this time was an interview.  It was a small mistake, but it resonated to a certain level that, well, essentially cost me a job.

Do I think there is more to the story? Yes, but this is not the time for that.  I’ve talked about that with others to the point of now dismissing  the angst.

I don’t really proofread these posts.  Like any work, for many people, it’s difficult to read over and re-read what we wrote to notice every error.  Once my fiction is complete, it will be in my best interest to have an editor look everything over; I do know of a guy, which is reassuring, but I haven’t needed him just yet.  The email that I wrote the contact at this company, was a quick brief phone-typed email that contained a misspelling of resume.  These types of mistakes have caused this company to loose six-figure contracts in the past, and this was addressed to me by some company representative, who wrote me an email filled with errors and a passive tone.  He signed off on the email with just his first name, no Mr. or last name, which implies that he and I are close buddies; of course, we are not, since this was the first time I’ve heard of the guy.

We spoke on the phone, and reassured the job as entry level, which means my being on the bottom run meant I would have supervisors.  He said, yes.  I asked if these supervisors would be reliable enough to present writing to before being sent, produced or printed, etc.  He said, yes.  Does people look over his work?  Yes.

I completely understand that you are fully capable of correspondence, but our team has deemed this unacceptable.

However, it is appropriate that I can, in fact, apply again down the road.  Yes, something isn’t quite adding up.

Hence, my one fat-fingered typo cost me an interview.  The feeling of worthlessness set in, and it’s still brewing.  The pain, desperation and depression concoction is absolutely beautiful.  This disgust and self loathing has never allowed me to feel more pathetically alive than anything that I’ve dreamed of.  However, I’m not going to try and fasten a hunting knife, using duct tape, to a piece of exercise equipment.

Like Bloom’s character my immediate response was to throw everything that I owned, and get the fuck out of town.  Talking to my parents is worthless, because they suggest I talk to certain people and places all useless to my cause of finding a new job.  It’s understood they are trying to be comforting and help out, but it’s becoming intrusive and obsessive to the point where my turning 31 is feeling 16-ish.  Talking to the cat is more productive than anything else; at least when comfort is needed, I pet him and he simply purrs.

Melting

The dominoes have begun to fall.  My computer is dying, and this morning it proved that.  Something was afoot and thankfully it was due to updates that needed to be installed.  I walked into the room with my computer to have my father standing over it, telling me my screen is black and asking if it stopped working.  I wanted to tell him to press the button and turn the fucking laptop on, but that consideration was reneged.  Instead, I dismissed him with rolling my eyes and a wave of my hand in full-blown diva style; all fingers were showing, so no bird was flipped.

Friends of the family had a relative pass away, so my parents and I went to the wake.  Wakes, in my opinion, are always appropriate to attend, especially if you cannot attend the funeral and mass.  However, wakes aren’t so fun when your parents are trying to make you feel better as you’re walking out the door.  She looks like a nice Irish girl, my dad says to me with a smile.  Yeah, she is, I reply with an emphasis on the period.  Granted it was intended to generate a laugh.  Mom rolled her eyes and replied sarcastically with a comment of picking up a cute girl who works at a funeral home.  That’ only agitated me more, and the response was silence.

I’ve surrounded myself with people, because it makes me feel better.  Last night, I played trivia with Frank at Danielle’s hosting gig.  Today, I dressed for comfort, donning a sport coat, dress shoes, button-down shirt and tie.  It’s funny to realize this outfit is just as comfortable as sweatpants and a V-neck T-shirt.

I’ve been roaming around, and fate kept including friendly faces to brighten my spirit.  Ryan from the Hot Chocolate Kids Club chatted with me at Cafe Kubal.  Joe and I spoke on the phone about job nonsense and life.  A quick convo with Katherine felt like a high-five.  Becky smiled and said hello.  Mike and I talked about improv and NEXT fundraising event tonight.  Tina, who I took improv classes with, found me at Hoynes for lunch.  My brother and his girlfriend asked me to join them for a pint after they get out of work.  Sam made a valuable reminder that F. Scott Fitzgerald lived briefly in Syracuse.

Still, I disgust myself.

Due to this flat tire, it’s obvious my trip to the southwest is not going to happen this year. I’d have to schedule the abroad trip for me to legitimately get a vacation off within a year of working for a company.

My third stop of the day was at the usual Freedom of Espresso, where I ran into the enigma of a girl, who I had gone on dates with last month.  We caught up quickly.  My legs felt weak, as if they were melting, but kneeling is inappropriate.  It was desired to ask her why and what happened, but those words did not surf off my tongue. Some things are best left unsaid.

This other brunette–saw her the other day–walks in.  Yeah, she’s very pretty and well-dressed–today and (surprisingly) more than the other day.  Probably not going to say anything.  Even though I’m feeling good, looking good, I ultimately have nothing to offer.  A 30-something out-of-work wannabe writer who lives with his parents and doesn’t foresee a life continuing in Syracuse.

Now, I just got a blog update:  a post saying that the author of A Clown on Fire is no longer posting.  

I need some sleep.  Maybe a pinch is needed.  Maybe a slap.

Sorry-not-sorry these posts have been on the blah side.