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Wednesday, Apr. 07, 2004 / 6:50 p.m. ~Oh, Skip This One Entirely, I'm Not Kidding, You Must Have Better Things to Do~ This me, whiny me, me can't do it anymore me, me I'm so sick of so much of everything me, me how much longer do I have to keep doing all of this me, and me why is this so hard and how do other people do it me, and why is it so damned hot, and why won't it rain, and when can I stop using windshield wipers to wipe away the heavy yellow thick pollen that is everywhere can't open the windows it's everywhere so it's hot upstairs me. I can't stand it, I want to lie on the floor and kick and scream, and it's not cold enough, it's so goddamned hot, the a/c never was cold enough, they never fixed it properly, they came back and said it's fine and that was that, and I can't stand it, any of it. Work was too hard, why did she have to walk out and leave me with her work now, and why did I have to be the one to call her contact and say something, and say it's me now, she's gone, it's going to be me now, and I am so tired of it all, and I was so overwhelmed, why must I be so overwhelmed, and why couldn't I get help, and I don't care if it's the day after or the actual day, yes, chocolate cake and ice cream are nice, but make it all just go away. How can one person generate so much dirty laundry, and how can two cats make such a mess with litter all over the floor, all the time, clean it and it's there again, clean it and it's there again, and the toilet is broken, I've been propping up the floater arm for too long, I have to open the tank every time I flush, maybe twice a day, to remove the wad of paper I have propping it up, and I can't have maintenance in here because their feet are dirty, their shoes will track dumpster dirt in here and I have to clean before they come anyway, and the a/c doesn't blow cold enough, and am I obsessive compulsive anal retentive whiny little 5 year old girl having a tantrum slash nervous breakdown on the floor kicking and screaming and why do I care about men and relationships and who cares if I have one, I don't even want one... I just want cold air and a toilet that flushes without running afterward, and a walk-in closet I can walk into, and an apartment that's not filled with dust, and RAIN, this is not a desert, yet, the climate has not changed, we need RAIN, do you hear, RAIN. All day I thought I'd cry, I even told her, if they audit me today I will probably cry, I want to warn you, and now I can cry, but I don't even want to, but I am, and do you think I'm going to go drink wine now? Go to an art showing? I have no clothes to wear, I hate my clothes, why can't I shop for clothes, why can't I clean my apartment, why can't I clean the bathroom so I can call for maintenance to come and fix my toilet? And the a/c, what is my problem? What is wrong with me, I hate me, and I hate all of this, and I don't even know why I've been trying to meet new people, because I am ugly and old and I suck and I am a total fucking idiot. Yes, this is the self loathing portion of the diary entry. Okay. I feel better now. I think I'll survive. It's this damned computer. I spend all my time here, reading, writing, reading and then writing, and if I didn't have it, well, I'd probably watch TV. But maybe, maybe I'd cook and clean and cook and clean, and do things I used to do, ride my bike, go to the museum, be creative. No, no, no, that was when I wasn't working. But now on days off I can't do anything either. I've gotten old and I can't do anything, and one day I'll be sick and dying and won't even be able to clean the vomit from the toilet, just like my father. I thought he was horribly disgusting, but he was alone, and I know what it was like, I know how hard it is. How much longer, that's what I want to know, because there is no joy in this. Okay. Okay now. Calma. Calma... It was a really hard day at work. My coworker walked out yesterday, and I have her district now. And it's hard, and it was a big day filled with way too much work for me, and I was overwhelmed, and it's hard for me to admit it, to admit that, and I did, and I got no help, until I said it a few more times, "I'M OVERWHELMED, DO YOU HEAR ME?!?!?", it's the deadlines, I say, it's the time constraints, and now, still, there is work sitting on my desk that should have been done by 3:30 today. The Manager came by and asked what it was. Sorry, can't get to it, it will have to wait. And then I come home and it's the same, it's always the same thing, yes, 'hope', whoever you are, and I think I know, I really do, I think we have butted heads before, I think you have a grudge, but you are right, I am rotting, and it's beyond that, I'm rotten, I'm putrid flesh with no core to hold me together. I make light, I try to be happy, but there is nothing to me, you are right, I am the sorriest excuse for a human being ever existing, and you're all right, you've all been right, you should really just beat me to a pulp. I have no merits, none at all, and you, whoever is reading this now, you have some serious issues that you are reading this for your entertainment purposes, don't you think, really? What can you possibly gain? Maybe you should be doing some laundry or washing some dishes, or painting, or drawing, or drinking some wine at a sidewalk cafe with friends. Do you have friends? I don't. Fuck me, just fuck me. Oh, right, THAT will never happen again either. Because I am too disgusting to appeal to anyone with fuck capabilities. Right then. Mmmm... better now. And he wants to read this? He wants the url? No way, are you kidding? Find it on your own pal, it's just me putting it out there, to the abyss, as she says, it's just a porthole looking in, not out, into the deepest part of the most horrible parts of me. And it's not pretty at all, it's fucking disgusting. Cost of the War in Iraq
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