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2002-06-03 01:35:35 (UTC)

Neurosis (sp?)


Therapy isn't working, and prayer doesn't seem to be
effective, so I think it's time to attempt some

I'm going insane for real this time. Normally, I've been
able to detect a detour from the normal paradigm early
enough to alter my flawed thought process and continue to
maintain my tenuous grasp on lucidity.

However, I have been so busy, so seemingly happy in the
recent past that I never noticed my mental composure
deteriorating until it was entirely and irrevocably too

I love my pseudo-job. (I am a DJ for WVGS, the GSU campus
station. I don't get paid, but I enjoy what I do, and the
perks rock like hell.) My show, "Back in the Day," is the
one respite in my otherwise painfully tedious week. (Four
hours of Economics and Philosophy per day would have
exhausted Atlas, and I have the attention span of a gnat.)

I digress. I love my Saturday afternoon radio show: I enjoy
sharing my extensive collection of 80's music with an
otherwise uriban-inundated audience; I relish the
opportunity to verbally annihilate the ever-annoying Greek
population at GSU, and I am completely and utterly enamored
with my co-host. (Jamie is everything I've ever wanted in a
boy: he's excessively intelligent, insanely charming, and
sexy beyond belief. Unfortunately, he's homosexual, and
wouldn't notice my fat-assed existence even if he wasn't.)

(Since we're discussing my ass, I should explain that it's
roughly the size of a Mitsubishi Montero. Thus, radio is
the perfect outlet for me: I'm only at ease on-air because
my listeners will never know how truly unattractive I am.)

Anyhow, I was live, doing my "Kappa Kappa Katie" segment,
an anti-Hellenic take on Statesboro law enforcement, when
the proverbial psychological dam busted.

I had been on hiatus, and thus, was not completely re-
acclimated to the production room. I was frustrated with
the three minutes of dead air that kicked off the show, and
furious with myself because of the numerous fuck-ups that
had occurred since. Jamie was growing equally angry:
normally subservient, he had pushed me off of the
production board, claiming exasperation.

I became determined to rectify my poor performance while on
air: my wit is often able to cover even the most
irreparable of production mistakes. However, during my
disappointingly mediocre discourse, the phone in the booth
rang, destroying my concentration. The result: dead air.
(The gravest of college-radio sins.)

Abandoning any claim to professionalism, I groped for
the "Off-Air" button, blindly powered up the CD player, and
ran from the station in tears, ignoring Jamie's expletive
ridden request to "Get the fuck back here!"

I don't know what happened. I've always felt powerful
behind the microphone, and I've always believed I was good
at what I did. I can't understand what catalyzed my panic-
stricken flight from one of my few genuine responsiblitites.

Psychotic behavior is nothing new for me, (I've lost the
respect of numerous friends and loved ones because of my
quick and irrational temper,) but I've never allowed the
feeling of inadequacy that generally control my personal
life to interfere with my professional performance.

I don't know what to do now. I've lost my show, and any
shred of credibility I've gained while at WVGS, and my best
friend, (the Student Media exec that helped Jamie cover the
remainder of my time slot,) hates me for what he calls
my "ever-present hysterics."

It doesn't help that Jamie, never one of my biggest fans,
now has yet ANOTHER reason to despise me...

I think I need to hit Gap.com for some boot-cut,
sandblasted solace. More tomorrow.

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