Tuesday, Oct. 14, 2003 / 1:34 p.m.

~If You Don't Tell Me, How Can I Know?~

Veronica was out last Friday and yesterday, and today she's back, and I realize how much happier I am here (at work) when she's not, here. She's loud, she's rude and crude, overall extremely lazy and large, a large presence. Sometimes I appreciate that there is a compassionate and kind soul inside her, but usually she's like a fly buzzing around my head. She's irritating and carries bacteria. Er, or something like that.

So, more thinking about the de-'favoriting', no, the unfavoritism, the removal of me from someone's list, a long-time reader, has me realizing that my mistake was in not realizing that she wanted to know what's going on in my life, and to allude to another place where I've written more details, and to allude further that anyone reading this cannot read that, and nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, was rude, to her. Jeez, I don't expect anyone to count on this. It's just a diary, or as previously entitled, It's Only a Diary, you know? Honestly, about 99 per cent of the time, I write to a 'you' who is nonexistent. Unless I mention someone by name, or hint quite strongly about the 'you', it's no one. Really. I never meant to imply that someone who wanted to know the details couldn't know them. And why not just leave a note telling me to quit? Say, hey, stop it already, we can't read the LJ, quit talking about it already.

And I'd say, well, I'll take that into consideration, but it's my diary, and I talk about other diaries in my diaries. Example, I keep a notebook too, and a daily documentation journal (yeah, see, you can't read those either!), and I mention the goings on here in them. I need different places to say what I want or need to say.

I know of at least one person at Diaryland who has several different diaries, and a LiveJournal too. So, go figure. Take what you can get, that's all I have to say.

Besides, this is crap, don't forget that. It's boring and dull and I only write it because I have to write, I have to sit and write, like now for instance. It's 9:14 a.m., and I've got my Walkman going, listening to the Greek Flamenco guitarist from the Greek Fest, and I'm sitting here typing. When I stop, I'll read my EW, answer phones, process paperwork when it hits my desk.

I think it was just a pissy thing, and to assume I don't care is wrong. People really do expect other people to know exactly what they're feeling without telling them a thing, don't they? If you don't communicate with me, how can I possibly know you feel the way you do?

You couldn't see that, but I just shook my head, and I would've made that tsk, tsk, tsk noise if I'd been anywhere but here.

I love being here and tuning this place out as much as possible at the same time.

When I walked in, I came down the aisle and saw everyone hugging, like they like to do. They can't just say, "Morning", they have to be all lovey dovey, and tell each other "God Bless You" and "I Love You". It's sick. Especially if you hear the things they say behind each other's backs later in the day. The hypocrisy is disgusting.

There was a woman who used to work here, half Chinese, half Mexican, really beautiful, like really, like I wanted to 'do' her she was so beautiful, and nice and unassuming, and she hated the hugging the black people do here. She cited that as one of the reasons she quit (a minor reason, but part of the whole shebang, yeah). She knew how phony it was. I don't believe in hugging people I A: hardly know, B: hardly care for, C: don't even like at all, D: I'd just as easily say "Top of the mornin' to ya'" to. You know?

See, I wrote "You". It's hypothetical. It's not a real 'you'. There's no real person behind that 'you'.

This album is really good. It's like driving music for some Mediterranean winding road. Damn, I just remembered my uncle is dead. I can't think of him in Italy, just there, with a place I can go visit, and winding roads we can drive on, my aunt telling him to slow down� Because we drove from Verona to the Cote D'Azur, traveled that coastal road, the one with sheer dropoffs to the sea below, and my aunt did tell him to slow down, and we both laughed at her, because we thought it was so much fun, and funny that she was scared without reason of course. At least I have the memories, but at Christmas it will be hard to remember that I won't be getting a card from him, nor will I send one, for the first time in about 20 years, or more. Man, that sucks.

But I did get to see Cannes, and Nice, and that little town where they manufacture the perfume� can't remember the name right now (Grasse?), and Monte Carlo, and I'm glad for that. It was fun.

There's a hockey game tonight, but I still don't want to go alone, not anymore, so I might watch some of it on TV, after my "Gilmore Girls", of course.

9:34 a.m. Things had better pick up or it will be a really slow day.

Oh, before I go, here's an example of my own pissiness� I invited everyone here to the Greek Fest Friday, actually I think it was on Tuesday I did the inviting, and no one would even answer me. Jane even laughed at me for assuming she might not be interested in another culture, but she had no desire to go, and wouldn't even make up an excuse why she couldn't. So, this week, no one has asked if I went, if I had a good time, and yeah, I'm pissy, and I wouldn't tell them anyway. So there. PMS affects everyone in different ways.

One more thing, really, the big multinational corporation that has the stupid company for which I work under contract, has this amazing and very efficient automated telephone system set up for its employees, and those who wish to verify employment of said employees, so the people who get through to me, or any of us really, on the phone, are those who cannot navigate the automated system, and therefore are idiots. Hence, every person we talk to is an idiot. I was thinking the other day that it might be fun to work for a catalog company, like take orders over the phone for items people feel they have to have, all the bibelots and gewgaws that catalog companies sell. Everyone would be happy and excited about their orders, asking about sizes and colors, and imagining said items in their very homes. Unh huh. I wonder if I'll win the lottery if I play tonight�

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