jobcorps 5.3
Reviewing my peer's advancing strides over the years has been a bit of an exercise in humility and confidence -
as dynamics have morphed from willing teacher (myself) and appreciative student, to a teacher losing enthusiasm
with a students progression toward arrogance, to apathetic teacher and pimp student, and all
the way back to willing student and obliging teacher/neutral but accessible teacher and semi-competent student,
my internal dialogue has underwent several seasonal shifts. Some rich in self esteem with condemnatory feelings
toward this person who has at times been quite unworkable, others doubting of my own parameters of potential, these
scenes of mentality tectonically bounding and shifting from and into one another are tolling to the faculties
involved in motivation and goal fulfillment - the oscillations between extremes confuses the brain and eventually
one may find themselves in the position I've been in for some length of time; a place of noncompetitiveness and
evaporation of urgency in my vercanular - the prospects of the future are great for me, which is why I believe
disaster is more frightening. I've oriented my last two years around investment for some future capacity and
this is incomprehensible to this 'student'. The dynamic of competitive embroilment is only fun when there still
remain shreds of excitement - for me the excitement dissipated sometime in early 2023 when the social apparatus
had rejected me exclusively and some solitude revealed the fickleness of engagements - I discovered reluctantly that
my inclination toward waiting on/gestating works for long periods was indicative of inexperience or inergonomy -
and a solution to both plausible deficits is to build a home project studio and experiment on my own schedule.
Sure, time limits are conducive to the completion of things, but for those with arbitrational problems (i.e.
historically making bad judgement calls without intending to) it also makes sense to allow elemental presences to
expose misjudgements and evidence areas of compromise through oxidation. Social apparatuses like the one I
was belched out of and reabsorbed and permeated between the two stomachs of didn't permit the deliberation
required by me to ensureably create worthwhile things, with particular regard to production. On top of that, it wasn't
a stable environment for collaboration, what with the counterproductive provocations of ego that manifest themselves
at unfortunate times. I find myself, in the absence of oppressive articles of engagement, comfortable to the extreme
of productive cessation - I haven't created anything in months at this stage (April 2025); while I am beginning to
feel some itch to return to the role of sound monkey, and hopefully this time will yeild some presentable sounds in
a quantity threatening to penetrate the ozone of insularity, the downtime has allowed for some degree of recollection,
degaussing. I was thinking about the wealth of MIDI transmission methods I have access to and questioning my lack
of graphical representatives for such deliveries on my pet site - these are, after all, hallmarks of the
expansionism I've pursued. And thoughts like these evidence the potentials that a motivating and intuitively
composed portal for musical planning and execution would offer; I can chalk my season of instrumental dormancy
up to the investment/prioritization of beginning a trajectory toward regimented movements in the musical domain.
If I detract in any capacity from the fructification of such a system, it is not in the interest of what I
semantically probe and depend hugely upon later to be implemented. The tools I choose to use versus the tools Trey
chooses to use are what distinguish and estrange us - in what I will call a two-way display of rigidity on our
parts, I deduced that we are diametrically opposite in the area of creative philosophy and utility valuation; where
Trey upholds traits that I'd interpret as superficial (like the 'newness' of a piece of equipment; aversion to
secondhand gear) and suffers his breadth of skill/viability in collaborative instances (the lack of a mixer and
a formerly and perhaps persisting nightmare of a monitoring setup for tracking), I relatively and inversely self-
antagonize with some seriously sideways adherences
to specific machines and doctrines of creativity. As we've both inflicted some bill of anguish to eachother under
our executive tenures, I cannot maintain any frustration with his character and instincts - rather I keep what he'd
likely deem a cavernous distance and only seldom skip across his creative valence in the interest to preserve an
ingredient of amicability between our creativity-anchored affiliations. I realize that with that core crushed it
would spell the end of the opportunity to discover - this is my end of the bargain; between the cobeneficial aspects
of exchange and ego supplimentation with observing someone critical of myself stumble, at times over objects I alerted
them of the presence of, I come out of the association with some currency.
The bit earlier about attempting to trajectorially influence the future of my creative strives through webpages
and the development of resources now at the expense of using the devices I'm thoughtlessly blowing two grand a month
on - it is a curious bit of semantics. I'm not aware specifically of its implications, respecting creativity or even
the other areas of my life, like education nonpursuit, repulsion of practical self-betterment and wishful thinking
in the direction of my former life partner, but they seem bad. I seem to struggle with things that most don't, while
there isn't much I appear to excel at; that's cause for concern. But I will do what I always do when a burly stormfront
presents itself, in whatever form it decides to assume - a negative report card, a crumbling trashed house, or
a behavioral/organizational crisis like this - ignore it. Hope for the best; the abyssmal report cards apparently
weren't abysmal enough to cause immediate difficulty; I graduated with my cohort somehow. The house situation continues
to evolve but hasn't precipitated existentially devastating situations, like condemnation, familial scrutiny/dispute
or burglary. And my tumor-engulfed gaits to distant destinations of content and achievement haven't seen an implosion
(miscarriage of all concern, nihilistic acceptance). Sure, I had a close call in late 2021 but that experience is what
has contributed to my embrace of time-liberation; it is what I can blame for my descent into compulsion and loss of
viability, when it effected the opposite - the relinquishing of my time and plantation of millable motivation in the 
oily consistency of emotional disenfranchisement.

Interfaces and women;
The years-gestating studio effort is further along than ever, but with some split ends in the shape of
not intuitively combinable semi-centerpiece articles (like an HDD workstation and an ADAT 8 track machine),
the labor of enthusiasm has become a bit scarce.
This is not anything I didn't come in with the expectation of - variety and option are at the heart of what
I believe is paramount to my own pursuit of optimization - but in practice the implementations of systems
which compete with one another is too great an undertaking without strict organization and security in what
a finished setup will resemble (how the studio will look/be in a year's time). The visualization of a tailored
ecosystem of coexisting articles is the biggest asset to restoring motivation to inject myself into it, because
for the time its the convoluted semi-brokenness which repels me. Introducing symmetry and intuitiveness into
the physical representation will have the effect of rendering initialization desirable/comfortable, where now
it is assymetrical, bucktoothed and topheavy - not what you'd necessarily want to stick your penis into. So
there is the comparability of an aesthetically pleasing work environment and a desirable woman.

Frank Roberts;
The latest embroilment of paid service I happened into is this transportation/unkempt aquarium-tending apprenticeship
deal. Sprouting as a nervous consent to a quite conspicuous chopped pork to-go box offerance (my coworker remarked
that it looked pre-chewed and with that I set it down with no intent to consume it)-cushioned tax savant wanted
plea, he meandered from greeting to asking how many words per minute I could type and if I was doing anything on
Sunday. Taken aback by the display and feeling somewhat remorseful for the rejection I gave someone else-an elderly
woman who asked if I could install her mailbox-I thought that the weekend engagement would be unobjectionable. Well,
that weekend, if I recall correctly, I received no contact. It was at my job following that vacant weekend that he'd
returned, explained something as to the non-contact, and shifted through small talk about hobbies into a refirmment
of that Saturday. And come Friday (this encounter was likely on Monday or Tuesday), I received a call from Mr. Roberts;
he asked if I could retrieve a consignment from the (Love Field) airport. Over the phone in my study, he rattled off
manual directions to reach the destination (HWY 183, Loop 12, Mockingbird Lane, Herb Kelliher, etc.). Of course, being
young and stupid, it didn't occur to me that he wasn't talking about DFW airport. I assume full blame for the
misunderstanding, but whatever impediment Frank possesses certainly didn't minimize opportunity for missed crucial
detail. Anyway, after some knobheaded bumbling around the wrong airport, I called Frank and we ironed over that
obstruction. The rest of the night was linearly navigated - the introduction to Southwest cargo was sweetened by
the accomodation of one employee, who was able to process my pickup despite not possessing the airway bill number.
The cargo (seven fish boxes) was then taken to Benbrook and loaded by Frank and myself into his backyard mancave-esque
construct - separate smaller building from the house, but with electricity and probably phone - at about midnight.
I had a fish box and was standing on the porch in the dark, and upon calling Frank yet again he came outside in his
night robe and we conducted a quieter post-op interaction (where he mentioned the neighbors being crabby and how
our voices carry); digging the remainder of the boxes out of my hatchback, those were put
onto a "handtruck" and deposited in the now illuminated building, where I was presented a $60 check and hurried
out as to not spread whatever cold-like illness that Frank had caught. The next weekend contained a similar operation,
only it had quirks - a delay of the cargo flight resulted in my pilgrimage being in vain as the plane didn't land
until 11:52; the desk closes at midnight and re-opens 270 minutes later. So between leaving around 9:10p, arriving at
10:03p, waiting nearly two hours for nothing, returning home at 1:04a, sleeping around three hours and waking up at 5:00a,
I wasted four hours and a fourth gas tank. Between 5:00a however, reaching Southwest cargo in Love Field at 5:50, calling
Frank to get the required airway bill number, and leaving those crates in Frank's trunk at 6:40, I made $60. Scraping the
edge of justification.
The next weekend, there wasn't a pickup job in order for me. The next weekend, I go and pick up 12 boxes which was a
source of some vehicular capability doubt; fortunately the load did fit, but not after a questionable forklift operator
(the same representative who I dealt with the very first time) allowed the boxes to plummet to the ground and get
damaged - the fish I learned soon after were not adversely affected. Upon arrival to the Apache trail headquarters,
a locale I was curious about, Frank and myself spent a few hours becoming more acquainted with one another with
conversation and instruction; at the time of this entry, I have been to the headquarters twice. While the nuances of
tending to the variety of species are still quite lost upon me, the routines of unpacking the specimens, depositing
them into a tank (acclimating them to temperature, inspecting water clarity (presence of amonia), securing aeriation
with the tube and "stone", scanning for "floaters"/dead or dying, etc.) and from there managing the packing materials
and applying necessary modifications are cementing themselves pleasantly.

OnlyFans content creator incomes (Sam and Nick) thoughts;
It isn't uncommon to find yourself in earshot of an online woman diminutizing the low-income male; through the
lens of a young person as I was myself amidst this foul progression, it may seem that women are sponges of
material and comfort; so to say that they enjoy these amenities while you sit, nearly paralyzed by worries
about the near future. And recognizing that the sequences which played out for me are similar albeit not exact
reflections of tens of thousands in the US, perhaps a couple hundred thousand globally, I am reserved about
anchoring my view of the world around the experience I had. Sure, it serves as an anecdotal reference and
counts for having been an event which psychologically
displaced me, but to be thrust wholly into an (externally) condemning
bulwark against women would show little patience, little fortification in my character. I believe myself to be
rich in these areas, in 'patience' as I procrastinate and don't execute with the knowledge of its erosive
consequence - my justification is that I don't care enough about love or other extractables from women to
invest what little energy leftover from my primary areas of concern/esteem/confliction. To reinvent my persona
and appearance would be cutting myself in half - I don't have much stuffing in the deer head of familial value
imbuement. I've observed atrocities unfold through the vector that is the compulsion for companionship, and though
not insurably preventative, limiting the window for discovery in not pandering to what higher maintenance/more
superficially or materialistically affixed females care most about-the physicality of me- does weed out a good
portion of the poisonous berries. If I cannot have a pure/comfortable association then I'd rather live a life of
solitude. I don't frown upon those who have exchanged money for sexual favors, nor do I necessarily the women
who have commodified themselves; the modern relationship is so much more circuitous and prone to spontaneous
malignment than ever before, so routing any degree of existential imperative into it is foolish, I feel. And
this levels the ground for which the statistic of internet proxy-prostitutes is to land - the results indicate
that the transactionalization of erotic sight doesn't compare to conventional employment avenues. They indicate
that only the top one percent of OnlyFans content creators make more than 10,000 USD annually from it, and this
reinforces the concept I possessed initially before demoralized pessimism imparted any influence; I can't envision a
critical pie slice of societies' men funneling money into accounts to observe the parts of a woman he's got access to
for free elsewhere. Sure, he may need to rely on imagination to fill in the blanks respecting the OnlyFans model he's
on the fence about fiscally obliging, but the abundance of women in which to patronize is not there in a capacity
in which to make viable sustainence prostitution for the promiscuous masses.