The title sums it up, really. I need definition for and certainty about a situation, and neither are ready to be offered.

When do social constructs stop being a formality and start being conducive? Where do the lines blur? What is gained or lost from bypassing them? Why must I wait for an axe to either drop, fly off, or evanesce? And how can I keep it from driving me mad?

The “who” isn’t needed in that string of questioning.

I really have nothing more to say on this ever-cryptic matter because my mind has hashed and rehashed everything out for me at a flitting-through-light pace in my mind faster than my fingers could possibly attain. If I still need to mull over some thoughts and prefer to see them spread before me, or if I see a shimmering base material from which a lovely train of words can be spun– then I’ll write.

If, as in this case, I need to throw my hands up in exasperation because fretting about the entire matter will do little to nothing and is completely counterproductive since I’ve already settled my half of a decision and left the final judgment to someone who’s taking sweet time in coming to a conclusion for reasons that seem to me to be excuses– then I’ll songwrite.

—

Each passing day, my internship at a local government subdivision seems to me to be teaching me less and less and loading me more and more with ennui and administrative bitch work. Nix that– I haven’t learned a thing since I arrived here. Oh, I’ve learned quite a bit from blowing hours on Wikipedia and reading an entire book discussing atheism and starting to study Spanish again, but this internship has taught me nothing. No coffee-making, but delivering printouts and copies? Not precisely a step up.

Considering that I am very much still the proactive type inclined to activism and actually getting things done– perhaps I should’ve taken the environmental grassroots coordinator route this summer instead. No, that’s equally futile. Yet this bureaucratic farce of an organization is driving me up a proverbial wall made of glass– transparent, and comparatively flimsy to other walls, but still there and still annoying. If I were getting actual experience, I wouldn’t gripe so much, but this is fluffy, useless resume padding (and not even the type that holds up to close scrutiny) where I could otherwise have spent a summer with an organization that taught me a good deal– if they hadn’t suddenly decided that they didn’t want an intern.

No use regretting, but what. The. Fuck.

My summer is going well, but living on my own and providing for myself– essentially having to be totally self-sufficient, with the aid of grocery stores and a borrowed car– makes me feel like I’m entitled to rounding out this experience, giving me a taste of post-collegiate solitary apartment-hopping life, with something that actually resembles a job aside from in name, cubicle, government network computer, and nine-to-five hours.

I’m posting from said computer. Hmmm. Wonder if they can track this. Oh well.

“You’re getting paid to not have to work!” is the common reaction. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

One, it’s a non-profit internship that I voluntarily took with a stipend that only aims to cover housing and food, though I could make a small profit if I spend wisely. Two, as this is the case, I would like to have done actual, useful non-profit work that made some sort of contribution, since I’m not getting paid; consequently, three, I am very disgruntled at having little to do but “oh, you’re an intern, can you help set up these table spreads? make these copies?” menial tasks.

It’s an insult to my intelligence.

No wonder so many policy hacks get disgruntled and leave.

—

I’m sure I’ll eat any words expressing a desire to do work when I’m burned out at age thirty, but for now, I reserve the right to rant and rave.

…Rave. I think I’ll grab a pair of glowsticks when I get off ‘work’, and spin until my mind whirls and I can’t think straight about the various things and people or person irking me right now. My life is fine, but it’s also calibrated finely off-center, and so I’m a tad off-balance.

Life is good, though. It is. I haven’t been content with myself in such a long time, and I don’t intend to stop now that I’ve rediscovered and firmly entrenched myself in self-confidence and yet more lessons about maturity and not-complaining. Minus personal mental turmoil, or circuitous philosophical ponderings, this blog has gone semi-dormant because said ponderings are now spouted to and shared with the aforementioned “who” mentioned at the top of this post.

And that who leaves me to leave this long-winded post with the wondering, frustrated inquiry- how can one person be so close to another in every sense of the word and yet still claim not to know [the other well enough? know what he or she wants for him or herself? fill in the blank]

Questions that typically, only troubled married couples ask.

Moving on. Mmm, songwriting.