In which I cuss a lot...

Such are the work place politics, where one is made to feel so small, put in her place on a constant basis, so that she may not forget how things work 'round here, that when a certain someone with a certain title makes a suggestion and passes it off as her own, though it is truly the very suggestion made by the small, lowly worker four months prior -- the same suggestion the certain title holder shot down instantly, imperiously -- the lowly worker merely smiles and says, "Yes. That sounds like a great idea," while trying her damnedest to add "you fucking cunt" telepathically.

To continue being vague -- let's not complain about work on here too much, dear -- this suggestion, if implemented sooner, as I suggested, probably would have prevented the shit show followed by the sad resignation of my coworker the other day. But I salute her for actually saying and doing what we all fantasize about:  Fuck all y'all, I'm out of here. Those weren't precisely her words, rather more crying was involved and then a quick, quiet resignation -- seriously, it was the weirdest thing, all a blur -- but it was the best and most honest reaction ever uttered up in this bitch. "You are so brave," a coworker commended through teary eyes, before watching as our very own Che marched out the door.

Usually I try to refrain from work related posts, and when that fails -- heat of the moment/mad as hell/I have no friends/except the Internet/that sort of thing --  I keep it vague. Also, I'm paranoid that *THEY KNOW.* In which case, hey assholes...

Just kidding. Another one to file under Delete Later.

I love it when they post and send around a notice at work demanding, "Trespass immediately when seen!" accompanied by a fuzzy surveillance picture of the back of a far away head.

After five days of taking this medication, I caught sight of the sticker warning of dizziness and cautioning against driving. It explains a lot. I'm relieved, kinda sorta. I'd been feeling funny. Not one to talk aloud about aches and pains, for fear of being taken for one of those people, someone who thinks she's special, always having medical issues, that she tells you about all the time, as if her headaches hurt more than billions of other peoples' headaches, as if she's dying, as if you care, cry me a river, so I just thought stoically to myself, "Well, this is it -- the beginning of the end." And then I went about my day, exhausted after a night of sleep, trying to keep my balance, laughing off comments about my pallor, complacent in the face of all that is annoying knowing that it will not be too much longer...

But now the medication is done and I'm feeling not dizzy and dealing with the fact that all is well and I don't have the secret of impending death to keep me afloat. Nope, son, this is it -- life. Which is sadly not a relief at all, actually, only more depressing, unfortunately, if I may be so dramatic for one flippant second.



I'm just fuckin' wi'choo, geez.

 I turned in the Ted Bundy book today along with a book by a psychiatrist about Casey Anthony's supposed mind. Really inspiring stuff. JK (I feel like I have to say that now, like when I was 10 and said "JK! haha" after every instant message in case the pedophile thought I really meant it. JK!). After discussing the Bundy book and mentioning dramatically how I'm relieved to be finished, the same coworker who recommended it listed a few more serial crime books I should read. I gave her the side eye.

When I was reading about Ted Bundy and thinking about serial killers in general my usual "You are so cute I just want to chop your head off and carry it around with me all day and throw it up in the air," and "I'm going to eat your toes as snacks in the middle of the night," hung self consciously in the air, as I realized that there are creep ass motherfuckers who actually do these things, albeit not from a place of giddy love. I made a mental note that, even if I'm mad after a fight over cake, I should not threaten to leave my husband's head in the restaurant while I go home to play his video games anymore.After learning that Bundy's bite mark on a victim's bottom was a crucial piece of evidence that led to his long overdue guilty verdict, I stopped telling Eugenio "Ima bite your hairy butt," no matter how much it appeared to be standing at attention, saluting me, begging for attention. Fretting over this new self consciousness, if a bit tongue in cheek, I wished I could go back to my innocence, a time when expressing a desire to chop off my husband's head was merely the sweetest of thoughts unclouded by images of the basest of serial murder.

But, meh. I'm almost over it. I'm moving on to saccharine shit and memoirs that don't involve murders for awhile to abate the horrors in my mind and regain the ability to tell my husband how I really feel. There really is no other way to accurately express how lovely I think my husband's face is. It's so cute I'd like to carry it as a purse. Sit it on my desk to poke at it throughout the day. I can't let the fear of misconstruction keep me from expression. I will not let Ted Bundy win. I will not.