Am I supposed to love what I do for a living? Sitting in front of a computer, trouble shooting away at servers gone awry and finding answers and solutions so esoteric that the only place sensible enough to put them is the internet, the home of the perverted (porn), obscure (Wikipedia) and the useless (the tech blogs that I frequent). Oh yeah. And online shopping too.

Oh, wait. You're saying that my job IS boring? Hm. Go figure.

So my job is essentially as fulfilling as watching a fresh coat of paint dry on a really, really humid day. Slow, arduous and besides getting the occassional high off of paint fumes, basically about as unfulfilling as unfulfilling can get. So here I am. Thirty something. Feeling unfulfilled. Still single. Unable or unwilling to procreate. Basically in the eyes of a judging (and yes, they are always judging) Korean parent (or parents in my case, who now know how to email and once again I cringe inwardly as they have also discovered this thing called Skype)) an utter and complete waste of genetic material.

Please. Don't try to comfort me by telling me it's not not true. Just because I am a waste of genetic material does not mean my parents don't love me. I'm aware of that. But if a gun don't shoot, it ain't much use as a gun now is it? Even if I am charming, handsome, funny, intuitive, sensitive and intelligent gun. (And for God's sake, NO, the gun is not a euphemism for my penis. My penis works just fine. It's just not used much, outside of fluid waste disposal purposes. Some may even call me a born again virgin)

That reminds me of a funny story though. Last fall, I went to my friend's birthday party where I was out on the back patio of the house, sitting around with some newly minted acquaintances and some friends. Low and behold, we were talking about death or how the world was going to end soon (don't ask, because I really don't know if there is a good answer to your question), and I spout out with, "God, I don't want to die a virgin!"

I feel the need to explain, for those who have not met the sculpted and often-mistaken-as-Adonis piece of male meat that I am, that I was being facetious (although when considering the length of time of me not have sex compared to have sex, it wouldn't be a stretch to say, I wasn't being THAT facetious). Apparently, a member in the party, who was a boyfriend of a friend, took my words literally, and though my comment awkward and odd thus leading to the obvious conclusion that I was not jesting and that I was indeed, infact, virginal and pure in nature. This eventually got back to me. Of course, me, who deflects any awkward situation with humor, found the whole situation hysterical. My friend, who heard what I said from my other friend, and tried denying the statement as one of jest, had to consider her word when the other friend approached her with the question, "have you ever met ANYONE Nate's been with?"

And my scandalous past comes to haunt me again as I never mingle the girls that I sleep with, with my friends. Needless to say, I might have issues. (Large ones)

The only bright note of this whole story is now I can claim with the next woman I am with, that the only reason the experience was horrifying and mildly disappointing is because it was my first time. That should at least give me a chance to have a second go, with the right girl.

hahahahhahahahha.

How this all relates to the originial topic of am I supposed to love what I do, I have no clue. How many of us truly do love our jobs? Probably far fewer than I would like to think. I know some people that enjoy what tehy do, once in a while. But most people I know simply tolerate what they do and settle for the paycheck that they recieve. Shit. I do. Who am I to stand on my little soapbox and judge and way my finger at those who gave into their pragmatic side rather than their idealism. (How do you think I choose the women I sleep with?) I don't know though. I still find myself dreaming, but lately the dreams have seemed less than real, less than familiar. I find myself coveting security more, craving its warm, somwhat thick, but still cute in the face embrace.

I digress. And joke. And make you laugh. But I still continue to write in this thing. Granted, on the prodding of my peers, sometimes. Maybe I will never outgrow my dream, just as I will never truly find satisfaction in fixing computers and checking asset lists for missing parts and such. Maybe I will never feel that fulfillment that some lucky few people get to experience. But I think I'm starting not to care.

You tell me, because I have no clue. All I know is that I just don't want to die a virgin.