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Thursday, May. 09, 2002 / 1:17 p.m. ~Choppy Sentences and Nihilistic Music - Angry~ I feel like I could write all short, choppy sentences. I'm home for lunch. But I'm not hungry. Delaney made us food. We paid her $4 each. Each of us. $4. Food. Less than sentences. One word at a time. Food. Tired. Frustrated. Cranky. Hot. Angry. Wanting. Dead. Inside. The temps are leaving tomorrow, or after tomorrow. Kathy comes back every year for peak. She'll be back, but they won't hire her permanently. She's merely a "permanent temp". Delaney has catering experience, she brings us food if we pay her, but she wasn't asked to stay. Quincey was, and we all wonder why. Why?, I wonder aloud. Riley is leaving as well. I'm glad. She may be an Aries, but she is daft, she is ignorant, no, stupid, and her incessant questions irritate the hell out of me, "Are you on the phone?", "No, what's up?", "So when I pick up the phone do I say hello?". Okay, she's not THAT stupid, but yeah, stupid. I'm sorry. No, I'm not. She is. And she has this Theatre voice. She PROJECTS, meaning to or not. LOUD. Shhhhh.... Gone as of Monday. From 11 women to 8. We'll be fine. So we gave Delaney $4 a piece to bring us fruit and veggies and chicken. Ah, the ubiquitous chicken wings. Southern black women. Sorry. No, I'm not. Know how some stereotypes are SO true?! Right. I'm tired of trying to remain PC, think what you want. You know that inside yourself you think all kinds of things, but only the black women still say what they want, things like, "She hugs like a white girl!". You know it's okay to say that most Southern black folks eat chicken every single day of their lives. One night I was hungry, almost time to go home from work, night already, near 6:00, and I asked five different women what was for dinner. Chicken. Chicken. Chicken. Chicken. And Chicken. Do I make these things up? So we had fruit, veggies, dip, and chicken. And Lulu cooked mac and cheese. 9:30 this morning that was what I was eating. I'm full. No lunch for me. Maybe no dinner. So I got on the Moby boards to post about the SPIN article. Thanks to Caroline, I found out Moby is on the cover of the June issue of SPIN, and for once in a blue moon, I left my apartment on a week night to go out to Chapter 11 to buy a copy, I rushed right out, no kidding, came home and stared at the photos of him, read the article, and I finally had my first Moby dream this morning. We were lovers, but I was jealous of his other relationships, I didn't trust him. Right, I wanted to post to the Moby boards, but at work, perhaps because of a "cookie" issue or whatever, I couldn't post to the boards, and I had my pitiful 15 minute break during which to trouble shoot this situation, and after I'd written out my little post telling Moby that when I meet him he will know I'm interested, none of this self-effacing nerd-boy crap around me, thank you, I couldn't 'get it up', dammit, couldn't post, and had to go back to my little cubicle with the PC with NO internet access and it was frustrating. And when they were all trying to get me to come witness/join the 'blessing of the food', I refused, told Kukla, "I'm not religious", but I wanted to say, "I DON'T SHARE YOUR RELIGION - YOU MEAN TO TELL ME AFTER FOUR YEARS OF KNOWING ME YOU STILL WANT TO FORCE ME, TO SUBJUGATE ME, TO CONVERT/SAVE ME? WHY CAN'T YOU, AS CHRISTIANS, ACCEPT/EMBRACE DIVERSITY, ANY AND ALL DIVERSITY, RELIGIOUS OR OTHERWISE?", but I didn't. AARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHH. That's how I feel right now. I'm angry. I'm frustrated. I had another dream about being at work, in a group, in a meeting much like yesterday morning's meeting, but Listerine turned to me, looked me right in the eye, and said, "I regret doing what I did to you", and I answered her, "I regret you doing it too", unforgivingly. I hated her still. Hate. Such a waste of emotion. Of feeling. But I do. When I left for lunch she was squealing. Yes, squealing. Because D., the Supervisor, was reading a child's (M's child?) handwritten card to her mother for Mother's Day, and contained within was the sentence, "If she was a song, my mommy would be 'Praise the Lord'". Of course Listerine squealed, "Eeeeeeee, I wanna SEEEEEE!!!!!!". She is a frustrated pedophilic Catholic Priest. She would like to teach the "good book" to children, she wants to run a daycare facility. She squeals at the mention of children and the Lord. I almost threw up. I nearly ran from my cube, clocked out and drove fast in the heat of the afternoon, windows rolled down, didn't even stop to switch glasses, squinting all the way in the sun. My Moby fixation is growing stronger every day. What's wrong with me? Isn't he merely a substitute? But for what? He addressed what I'd already noticed, the name change, from "Moby Updates" to "Moby Journal", and it was exactly for the reason I surmised. I'm with him, I'm right there along with him, the same mindset, I'm on the wavelength, I "feel him". Sympatico. Ugh. No, I won't stalk. That's not me. You don't know me. My crushes are so innocent. I was reading some of Sylvia Plath's journals last night and there is a portion I want to quote here. Now is not the time. But, well, you'll see. Back to the hell that is my cubicle. Today I'm listening to Bonnie Raitt, and later Digable Planets' "Blowout Comb", Paul Simon's "Rhythm of the Saints", but I want to hear Nine Inch Nails, LOUD! Cost of the War in Iraq
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