7/29/25, 9:28 pm (finished at 10:21 pm)

Today is the day I found out my job at Six Flags isn’t a real job.

I am going to describe the emotions I felt, and the actions I considered, in the 2 or so hours after I realized. I am doing this for record keeping purposes, because I had many, many thoughts and not one was wholesome. First, I will write the job description and news.

My job at Six Flags, as it currently stands, is that of janitor. I sweep streets, bus tables, and scrub bathrooms. Six Flags, as I’ve been aware from the beginning, over-hires for this position. Specifically, they hire about twice as many employees as they need. I know this because no one covers for a worker on lunch break. Since there always needs to be someone at least in the area next to an incident, and since there’s no system to guarantee that, Six Flags just hires 2 workers for every actual position. It makes sense: they don’t interview either.

The news is that this position has no hours. In the next 4 weeks, I am scheduled to work a total of 11 hours, which is 2 shifts. I didn’t know this before because I had no schedule. It took me a week and a half, after hiring me, to give me a schedule, and it has me at 3 hours a week. That’s a joke.

When I saw this, I said, “This can’t be real.” I called them and it went to voicemail. I requested to pick up some shifts, which were denied. I drove over to the office, which told me to call them, or else pick up shifts. Yet still, I didn’t realize.

It took me calling my mother, telling her the news, to understand what was going on: they have no intention of putting me to work. This job is for 15-year-olds who want to say they’re working. It’s for people who already work full-time looking for a side gig. This is not something I can keep, even for a few months while I send out resumes. Bear in mind, it took multiple months to find this.

When I realized, on a call with Mom, we tried to make a plan for how I was going to get an actual job. We decided to look in a newspaper. I went to a convenience store, and then a Barnes & Noble, but neither carried newspapers. We decided to look at the trucking industry. Everything required 6 months experience. In the end, we found zero leads.

I decided to go to campus at the college where I live but am not enrolled in. I thought I might use their internet to send out some applications. I drove there, realized I’d left my backpack, drove home, drove there, realized I’d left my backpack, drove home, drove there, and wandered into a building.

This is the second time this year I can remember feeling anger. I can always tell when I’m angry, because it affects me physically, and it’s rare enough I can keep track. The first time was a flood in my hometown that killed 100 people. In that case I knew I was angry because my chest got tight and it became hard to breathe. Today I knew I was angry because I drove over a curb. I said, “I’m so angry I drove over a curb,” parked, got out, tripped, got my backpack, got back in, and drove to campus without hitting anything.

Whenever I’m angry, I lose fine motor control. Oh, I lose long-term decision making and my reflex times double and I can’t talk at a regular volume, too, but those happen. I lose fine motor control. It is the most horrifying thing to ever have taken from you. Every time it happens, I want it to be over, and when it is I never want it to happen again.

I walked around campus for about half an hour. I can tell because I tried calling a friend at 8:30 and made a charge on my credit card at 9:00. During this time, I recall wanting to become very drunk. Perhaps to see how drunk I could get. I’ve never wanted that before. In the end, I decided I’m not 21 and don’t have a fake ID; and besides, don’t know where any bars are.

The charge on my credit card is a $2.25 for a Pepsi. This is a bizarre, singular event, far more than wanting to be drunk. In the first place, there is very little I would spend $2.25 on. In the second place, I’ve not had a Pepsi for several years. Normally, it would at least be diet (which was also in the vending machine). Finally, the educated in our society know that soda contains caffeine, and the observant will remember I bought this at 9:00. This particular one has 63mg, or 2/3 a cup of coffee, and 138% of my daily sugar allowance. I will not sleep tonight.

As I write this, and as I drink the Pepsi, I am listening to Arrietty’s Song, from The Secret World of Arrietty, which I watched in Colorado. It’s a little movie with a 94-minute runtime about the romance between a 14 year old boy and the girl who secretly lives in his house. She (Arrietty) is actually an inch tall, and probably a species of bug; now, let’s consider the song.

I'm 14 years old, I am pretty

I'm a teeny tiny girl, a little lady

I live under the kitchen floor

Right here, not so far from you

That’s the first verse.

This is a song that makes me viscerally uncomfortable. It’s kind of weird until you think about it, whereupon it becomes very weird. This was a song I listened to up until last fall when I understood the lyrics; I’ve put an instrumental version on today.

Japanese animated film tends not to know what to do with their young (or young looking) female characters. Or, perhaps they know exactly what they’re doing: in any case, and in lieu of any traits, such characters become sexualized. I don’t need to explain this.

“But Keaton,” you say, “why do you listen to a song that makes you deeply and immediately aware of the most glaring problem of a certain nation’s culture, even if the song doesn’t technically have that exact problem?” And you point out the flaw in my argument: Arrietty isn’t sexualized. She is, by her nature, a speck on the screen, so small you can only tell where she is when she moves or through context of other shots. So no features are visible, like, ever. And as to the boy, male gaze goes both directions: Arrietty’s often not in the shot because he’s not looking at her; while he goes on and on about her beauty.

I listen, then, because it makes me uncomfortable. This more than anything. It’s the same reason I called someone I knew wouldn’t pick up; planned an illegal activity I knew I wouldn’t enjoy; bought a drink I knew had no redeeming qualities:

Because when it hurts enough, I can’t be angry.