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2001-07-03 / 1:22 p.m. ~"Dont get short with me"~
There is this anger inside of me, alive, like some living breathing monster, and surely it is simply a manifestation of something grand and foreboding within my psyche, right? Like sexual frustration maybe? But nevertheless, it's there, just below the surface, almost always, and when it rears its proverbial little ugly head, or large head, either way, there's nothing to do, can't let it out, it's just a bark, not even a decent bite. Must. Contain. Anger. Must. Simply Must. So it stays, burbling, boiling, ready to burst. This guy calls up, yeah, a Customer Service Story, I love these stories, and he's calling for his son, who no doubt is too stupid to call for himself. And the guy says, Dad says, he needs to find his son's last paycheck, on account of son is a total shithead who can't hold a job and probably quit or got fired 'cause he can't show up or something, and so I say, Well, Dad, you'll need to call Payroll, nope, I can't help you, and he proceeds to keep telling me his particular sob story, because people just love to call up CS Reps and tell them their problems. So, I'm saying, yeah, well, whatever, like I fucking CARE or something, call Payroll, you fuckhead. And know what he says? Know what? "Don't get short with me!", like he's the World's Dad or something, like I don't know my job inside and out after 3 years. Like he can talk to me that way. Harrummmph! Finally, he wears himself out, and yeah, uh, guess what again? Dude needs MY help, needs to know the uh, er, yeah, that's right, the PAYROLL phone number, um, like I said, DAD, fucking DAD! I say, after a pause about 9 months pregnant, "I was not short with you, I simply want to help you, I want to give you the Payroll number", like I knew I had to do, to give it to you, after your first ten words or so, remember back that far, huh, Dad? Sorry, see, this blew me away, it just blew me all to shit, I was so fucking mad, I ripped my earpiece off my ear, threw it down on my desk, turned off my phone, and said, Fuck this Shit, well, to myself, of course, because, well, the gals don't take kindly to "cussing", but I thought, what is my deal? Why do so many things, like this, simply want to make me scream? Do I just need to go somewhere and scream? Is that it? Or do I need to be fucked really hard, then soft, be ravished, my entire body over? Would that help? I'm telling myself it's sexual. I love sex, I don't have sex, not for months, and I think it's really bad for me, this not having sex stuff. I think it makes me want to scream, and I don't even realize that that is the reason why. Well, love wouldn't hurt either. If I could love someone, shower someone with love, there would be no room for the anger. Side note, thank God, I'm re-reading The Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing, and no, it's nothing to do with hunting, nor fishing, but it's so good!!! I picked up it, maybe six months, maybe a year ago, maybe that long, and read half, set it down, never picked it back up, so I'm re-reading. I LOVE IT! I intend to quote some of it, here, in my little diary, later. She makes me laugh, she strings words together so well I wish I could write that way - Melissa Bank. If you're reading this, whoever you are, go get this book, read it NOW, okay? Okay, it's mid day, I'm home, for lunch. This is probably, maybe, I'm not sure, but I think it's the main reason I stay where I work, the main reason I don't run screaming from there and never return. I can come home for lunch. Visit the cats, the girls, sit here, on my computer, write in my diary, eat lunch, hell, I've been known to shower! Whatever, within 1/2 hour. I get an hour and it's about 15 min. each way, in traffic. 1/2 hour, leftover. I relish it, cherish it, wait for it, do it automatically, every day. It's hot, one sign read 99, but that can't be. But it's hot, big storm clouds flirting overhead, threatening to come, um, pour rain down on us all. See, it's all about sex, isn't it? I know everyone else is doing it, or thinking about it. I know this. But, in the shade, it's not bad, it feels kinda cool, breezy, nice, like I want to be on some verandah somewhere sipping my Mint Julep, and I can say that in a great fake Southern accent, because I don't have a Southern accent though I've lived here almost my whole life, but I love to pretend I'm Scarlett O'Hara sometimes. Casual Day, red white and blue day, so I have on my red and white striped shirt, and my blue jeans, and I'm bouncy in my "athletic shoes", and it's great, and I'm reading this fabulous book, and I pause........here........at the sound of the rain pouring down. Some big black cloud up there just had a terrific orgasm and we feel the ejaculate pour down in a heavy spray of wetness. Mmmmmmmm...... Enough of this shit. I've got to write back to Andrew, thank him for assuring me Diaryland.com is going nowhere. Sure, Andrew, thanks. Cost of the War in Iraq
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