Oil and..... oil

Upon arriving back home to New York, I must confess that the idea of unemployment held a certain romantic mystique for me. After all, this is the city of Rent and unofficial capitol of la vie boheme. My lack of work presented a unique opportunity to enjoy the city without responsibility, while using my apartment as a personal zen chamber in which I could pass the days bettering myself through quiet, thoughtful introspection.

But as with so many plans that begin with "I'll just quit my job and hang out for a while...," there's always a rub. And in my case, it has come in the form of a 245 lb recovering drug and alcohol addict that has taken up permanent, half-naked residence in my living room. The human equivalent of the great Exxon Valdez oil spill of 1989, he sprawls out like a giant, harry tarp, rendering any hope of coexisting life futile. Not a moment goes by that he isn't posted up in the middle of my sanctuary, blaring noise at a near deafening pitch. Whether it's the most incoherent drivel that basic cable has to offer, or even better - an endless loop of electro-pop-rock crap: I can count on my daily auditory bombardment beginning promptly at 10:00 a.m and continuing on for the next 8 to 10 hours.

It's look of contentment as it flagrantly wastes its days - wallowing in its own sloth, oozing out a total indifference to any kind of self betterment or movement of any kind - never fails to shatter my chi in a million different directions, leaving me in a perpetual state of repulsion.

Do I resent it? HELL YES. This is my time - my opportunity to find clarity. And that time is being ruined day after day by a massive, omnipresent, inescapable blob.

But the worst part is that at the end of the day, there's really no tangible difference between the two of us, At the end, it... is ME. And regardless of how romantic my vision of my unemployment may be, when the cards are down, I am this human oil spill - no better. Its presence serves as a constant reminder of my own refusal to sack up and get moving. Because regardless of how I'd like to justify my lifestyle, every time I look down at that couch, I can't help feeling like I'm staring my alter-ego square in the eye. Like looking at one of those distorting mirrors at the State Fair fun house, it's difficult not to feel just a tad nauseous.

In the words of the legendary Snoop Dogg, "He is I and I am him."

And I fucking can't stand it.