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Thursday, Jan. 24, 2002 / 7:34 p.m. ~I Can Write if I Want To~ The Design Auction women have started reading my diary. And what a soap opera my life is. I won't go looking for bad news. I can't let myself search for something being written about me, quotes from my own diary, not this time. I know I have to ignore it, but to see that someone went back into my diary to read specifically what I wrote about that whole event, went back to those dates to read, well, it was not unexpected, it was, however, something I had hoped wouldn't happen. I'll try not to obssess, but I know me too well, and I know I'll be bothered. I know I'll lie in bed and think about it. When I wake in the morning it will be on my mind. I can't believe I wrote this morning how relaxed I was at work, how comfortable, maybe it was Lulu being out, and Sabrina, and Veronica too, for a while. Later, I had an intense desire to know why the three of them had come in late, and I knew I'd never know. It was killing me. Overhearing Lulu say, "I'm so excited! I haven't eaten anything all day!", and though I was hoping she had a job interview...and got hired...I think she finally got a new car instead. But then Penelope gave her the usual ride home. Veronica talked to someone about how excited she was too. And I thought, Wha..? What's going on? Did they do something together? Are they all quitting (oh please, oh please, oh please)? Ack. I want to be in the loop, but I never will be again. Work got worse and worse and worse, a day of explaining, of people holding on to their phones for dear life as I try to tell them they must call back after February 1st to get their W-2 forms reissued. I'm sorry. That's just the way it is. And they say, "But..." and "What if....?" and "What about....?", and "Can't you just do it now? Why can't you just do it now?", and I want to say, "Because. That's just the way it is." "You know how Tax Day is April 15th? Unless of course April 15th is a Sunday, then it's April 16th. You ask why? Why is Tax Day April 15th? Because that's the way it is." Why is Christmas on December 25th? Because. Why does shit stink? Because. Why do we not begin reissuing the W-2s until February 1st? Because. Deal with it. No, FUCKING DEAL WITH IT AND HANG UP YOUR GODDAMNED PHONE, NOW!!!!! Ahem. Excuse me. Having to be polite, all day, to people with the combined lowest IQs of everyone in the entire world, people who cannot grasp the fact that we, at our service center, are not the BIG corporation, but merely a little company under contract as outsourcers, and therefore we get paid a mere pittance comparatively, people who cannot grasp that a W-2 is a year end tax reporting statement, not "Mah taks fohm", having to be polite, having to not hang up, having to wait for these people to come to grips, having to wait to actually SEE the light bulbs alight on top of their heads, is pure hell. By the end of the day I had switched from Soul Coughing to Cibo Matto in the Walkman, but not being able to hear the phone ring, having to stare at it so I could see that red light start flashing, then switching from headphones, to earpiece, to headphones, to earpiece, explain, explain, cajole, soothe, headphones, earpiece, soothe, cajole, stroke, stroke, stroke, slowly, do-you-understand? slowly, is there anything else? slowly......I was dead when it was over. There was some line in the new show, "That '80s Show" (which was very, very clever and funny, by the way), last night, this kid's manager at work telling him that he may like working for his dad, in "The Corporate World", better than working there at the record store (named "Permanent Record") - she says, not verbatim, but close, "I hear once you go dead inside, it's not so bad". I gasped! I laughed, but it was a knowing laugh, it was a Yeah, wow, that's it, kind of laugh. Like, you are speaking the truth, sister, and that makes your humor all the funnier. Like that. Point is, even if I think I'm dead inside, there's a fire burning and no one can extinguish it, not even me, not even this stupid job. That's how I can get so angry at the idiots who call and want me to walk them through adulthood. If I were dead inside.........I wouldn't be here, now, writing this. If I couldn't feel, I wouldn't be upset that the "wrong" people are now reading these words and others, that those women are still seeking to destroy some part of me. I'm alive, I feel, I'm not dead inside. Inside of me there is too much, there is not only a volcano waiting to erupt at a moment's notice, but beside it is a vast ocean, and on the other side of the volcano is a mountain chain, craggy cliffs and all, beyond that a peaceful meadow, but all before it must be traversed to get there. And there is no modern day transportation. It's so fucking hard to have all of that inside of me, and I haven't even mentioned the nude beach with the little cafe down the street.......... Right now is where this is suddenly recognized as the whiny, angsty, "dreary and bleak" sort of diary entry, the recognition visible only to those with the conviction to read so far down the page, or those whose fingers have been on their mouses (mice?) the whole fucking time, scrolling, scrolling, skimming past the blather. Thank you for your time. (she says with great sarcasm and disdain) Sure, they want to know what I wrote, the diary was locked, "Ooooh, what did she write then?? What did she say about ME???" "I wanna know what she wrote about ME??!!!" "Let me see!!!" "No, I wanna see!!!!" "I'm gonna write something nasty and mean about her, and I think I'll paste some of what she wrote" "Yeah, let's stir the pot, let's dredge it all back up, because we can't possibly put it all behind us, not possibly!" Attaching too much importance to myself? Not hardly. It's not me. It's the damned site statistics. They never lie. As the new person says, it's a cyber fingerprint. And I've been dusting. Damn it all to hell. There is no ME in all of this, not one fucking person will ever take into account me. That I exist, I am a human, I feel, I am like you, only better. I abhor humanity. What is the point of existing alongside them? What is this grand experiment? What is the meaning of life? And don't give me that Douglas Adams answer, no, I mean really? Why am I here? And you? And you, and you? And Peggy Lee, Peggy Lee who now is there, wherever "there" is, she knows, but Peggy, "Is this all there is?". And Cainer, the schmoe, first tells Aries people that incredible things are coming our way, and we have to recognize them, reach for them, grab them when they are presented, then today he says a watched pot never boils, as if we can't keep looking, we have to wait. And I want to say, Jonathan Fucking Cainer, make up your fucking mind. Guess what? It's only going to get worse. I've been through this time of year at my job before. Oh yeah, every year. We'll begin the reissue process on the 1st. Then, about a week later, maybe sooner, we'll realize that the computer program is totally fucked, that everyone who called that first day will NOT be getting their W-2s in the mail after all. The data will be lost. Happens every year. Then those people will call, all angry, all "Wah, wah, wah, I need my taks fohm! I needz to fal my takss, my babies iz hungry, we needzzz our munny!!!", and I think to myself that they shouldn't have fucked around with their incomes in the first place. Fill out your W-4 form properly when you're hired, then the BIG corporation will tax you appropriately while you are employed, and after they fire you, you won't be so fucking dependent on some huge refund you think you'll get just so you can feed all four of your illegitimate children instead of getting the child support you think you deserve from the children's four different fathers, who are, of course, deadbeat dads. And they pretend they don't remember you anyway. No sympathy. First, don't fuck every man who tells you you're a "dime". Second, if you feel the urge, use fucking birth control, Planned Parenthood will give it to you for FREE. Third, use the fucking birth control EVERY time you fuck, not just the first fuck of the day. Fourth, if you have the kid, at least get the father's name so you can find him for Child Support later. Fifth, claim the appropriate claims on the W-4 so the correct amount of taxes can be taken out of your paycheck. Don't quit, hold on to the job, and show up every day so you don't get fired. Sixth, if you move, change your fucking address BEFORE THE END OF THE YEAR, so you can get your original W-2 in the mail, as God planned it (your God, not mine, I don't believe in God), and so you don't have to call me bitching about how you didn't get the thing, and how you can't wait for a reissue. *Sigh* Hey, that felt good. Writing is therapeutic after all. Wow. Yeah, baby, that was for me. Almost as good as an orgasm, letting off some of this volcanic steam...... So, Diaryland Auction Design Team, Auctioneers of the Self-Important Variety, those women/girls who have chosen to attempt to cause me pain, well, I guess you're welcome now. G'head. Have fun, rip me up some more, it's what you want, it's what kind of people you are, what can I do? What can I do. I can write. It's all I can do. Cost of the War in Iraq
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