It all began about a few weeks ago when I started reading the book, “Strange Days: My Life With & Without Jim Morrison”, by Patricia Kenneally, his wife. The book, by the way, was absolutely amazing. She wrote the most beautiful and heart breaking memoir that I have ever read. It was so honest and the way she spoke of their love made me cry. And where do I usually read you ask? Um. Usually en route on the train or bus going, coming, and everything in between. It came to a point where I ached to read, but at the same time anticipated and feared the emotional drainage that I was about to endure.
Imagine its a Sunday evening and your riding the train back home after a long weekend. While contently listening to your ipod and reviewing the awesome weekend , you do a double of the girl sitting across the way — is she crying while clutching to a book? Yes. That was me. I’d read and then reflect on my life. Oh god. Am I losing my mind? Perhaps.
The book ended, so I thought I would have some public peace for a bit. Um no. Then there was last night.
I went out to happy hour (pictures to come soon) which turned into happy night, with E & her friend Chris. We were talking about life, goals, dreams, drive, passion (all of which are never good to talk about after 2 glasses of wine, shots of vodka, car bombs, and perhaps 3 vodka clubs….how the hell are we alive and functioning today?) Earlier in the happy hour, I was ranting about my job and how it’s not fulfilling or interesting or challenging and so on, so I was already bubbling with life’s work wah wahs. Chris asked us:
“So what are your passions? What is your dream job?”
I remain silent because honestly, I have no idea. How do you pin-point a passion? I don’t know if I have one. There is nothing in life I get super sick over doing and not doing. I have things I like. Things I love. But. That passion sickness. I really don’t know about that. I would assume if you had a passion, it’s not something to dig deep within to find.
“Kristine, how about you?”
I reply with a question hoping we push the conversation aside.
But noooooooooo. He kept egging me on and apparently the only way to remedy the situation was to cry? Really? I start talking about music and lack of passion and what I do during the day is not even mildly interesting, blahgitty blah blah. I’m sure I talked about my job robbing me of my youth…Kept on going on and on, tears here and there.
It was a mortifying sight.
Moral of the story: hmmmm….
(A) I’m assuming I should seek pychiatric help
(B) NEVER talk too deeply at happy hour. Well. I’m sorry, lets re-word that. Lets not talk too deeply about one’s goals and job at happy hour.
Obviously there is lack of content at the office if we are all fleeing to the bars after work.
(C) If you want to talk to me deeply at happy hour, lets talk about spirituality or personal growth. Traveling. Our favorite books or something. Come on. Work. No thanks. I can’t. Unless you want to make me randomnly cry or something.