Migrant labourer Murphy

Abortive entry from work. Can't relate to mood of entry now:

I really dislike having to work so far from home. Today I was discussing how I have naturally dry hair with this chick and she told me I need to oil my hair twice a week and keep it oiled for only an hour before washing it off. And in the interest of not going to work with wet, unruly hair this activity must be conducted in the evening after work. Wherein lies the catch as I only get home at 8. Which implies washing my hair at 9:30 at night, followed by four hours of waiting for it to dry. It’s a good thing I have given up sleep.
All the free time I have at work (let’s not get into that for now) I keep thinking to myself that I ought to update my blog, I ought to update my blog. But writing at work is hard. My mind’s clamped shut so that I don’t accidentally end up thinking about how I’m not learning anything new or how I don’t get to spend enough time traveling any more. I can’t do a desk job, internet. My heart’s just not in it and my nomadic habits seem to be too deeply entrenched to break. I refuse to be bound down; I can’t be responsible for the same thing for longer than a while. This whole leaving work on time, every day at 6 business, is a little depressing. I’m bored and I can’t do one goddamned thing about it.
Maybe I don’t know how to be grateful. Maybe I’m a liar and an asshole. But fuck this shit dudes, I should be allowed to sulk as and when I feel like it. Being understanding and accommodating and spelling e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g out is just too bloody painful sometimes and sometimes I just want to resent things in peace.
I realize how much of my life is dictated by my commute. It takes up the time I would normally prefer to spend doing regular 24 year old things, having a life etc. But it also gives me time to think things through entirely which in turn gives me the strength to be understanding and accommodating. I get to see a large number of really varied people also commuting, also going through the same routine, though in different degrees of comfort. This is the time I get to see men on fast moving two wheelers manage to adjust their balls with one hand only. This is when I get to reflect on my inability to sleep, my falling hair and wonder what sort of secret malaise inflicts me. This commute marks the physical distance between having to think about things and spending ten blissful hours daily in a job that is demanding and unreasonable and in all probability not meant for me at all. At least that used to be the case till I got this desk job equivalent with all its free time and fuckall inability to occupy my mind completely. This commute has given me the chance to truly appreciate how functional Indian women are designed to be and also worry about how the only thing I seem to be capable of is making money.