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Monday, Mar. 24, 2003 / 7:20 p.m. ~The Self Loathing Portion Of the Program - And a Warning I May Lock Mine Too~ Like some others recently, I may be locking this soon. I've got someone reading far too much, with little input, someone without even a diary that I can read, and it's not fair, the scales are tipped, there is an imbalance and I feel exposed, even more than usual. The search engine hits are fast and furious too. Mostly porn, bizarre word combinations, and some of the usual, some I've noted, hence they arrive here, to read me scoff at them. For what purpose? I'm beaten and worn, I'm low and sinking further. I'm a drama queen. I am melodrama, personified. Melodrama wears a v-neck tshirt, flannel pants and sits sipping Merlot, occasionally stopping to cry, or blow her nose. Melodrama feels defeated, castigated, enslaved. Melodrama feels trapped and alone, held in place, unable to function. I like talking about me in the third person. I think I wrote an entry like that once, oh, maybe two or more. I may have to call in sick tomorrow. As I am sick. I am mentally ill. I am incapacitated, once again. I cannot muster normal feelings, energies, not even hunger. I can't tell what to do next, if not for looking at the clock. I, I, I, I, I. Melodrama doesn't want to talk about today, about how she waited, how she almost quit, all day long, how she almost told her Manager (M) that all is well because she is leaving, thank you. She shall gather her belongings and bid you all adieu now. Ta ta. Melodrama is all talk, no action, a big loser. No, a small loser. Small, meek, totally desirous of Michael Moore's testicles. Michael Moore has the largest testicles of any human being who ever existed. I wish I could be him. Not just like him, but him. He has love. He has success. He has no fear. He has talent. He has money. He is proud to be an American, and exercises his rights and privileges as such as often as he can. He is dreamy. He is balls personified. Balls walked on that stage at the Kodak Theatre last night and talked all through the "NO!"s and the "BOO!"s, and didn't he say what he meant to? "Shame on you, President Bush", or did he say, "...Mr. Bush"? Either way. Fucking blew me away. Every time someone started talking I got nervous. What will he say? What will she say? Susan Sarandon stopped at flashing a peace sign, but what about...? What about...? See, I'm okay. I'm okay. I can forget myself and think about the Oscars. I'm okay. I said this, to myself: "Don't act rashly. Don't give up a paycheck. Wait. Find something else FIRST.", but then I'd say, to myself: "I'll never look. It's not going to happen. On my days off I lounge around. I relish lounging around. I love to lounge around. I'm BORN to lounge around. I'll NEVER find anything unless I gather my shit and walk the fuck out.", but then I'd say, to myself: "You do that and you'll regret it." See that? That was where I started talking to myself in the second person. Or as if I were more than one person. That's the inner dialogue portion of the program. The meeting happened late. It's too much to record. Suffice to say that everyone was involved in what I did. That I committed a grave offense. That I have, for the first time in my professional 'career' as a peon, been 'WRITTEN UP'. Fuck a raise. Fuck anything but showing up just as I do now, collecting my paycheck every Friday. Now, in a way, this could be seen as liberating (and think of it, the US Military didn't even need to bomb me!). I never have to try hard again. I've already fucked up. As long as I follow the rules, and never try to take matters into my own hands, i.e. remain 10000000% subordinate in the future, things will go swimmingly. I take in my magazines, my Walkman, I sit and read, I take some calls. Piece of cake. Maintain my Quality for Auditing purposes, get my quarterly bonuses, my paychecks every Friday, I'm good to go. I can write the Great American Non-Fiction Essay (I don't do novels) in my spare time. I can do anything in my spare time. Just go to work, answer the phones, come home at lunch, squeeze a cat or two, easy peasy. What's the big deal, Ms. Melodrama? SO melodramatic! Oh, "I'm beaten and worn", poor, poor thing. Must be SO hard to be a person with JOB in AMERICA, land of the fucking free. Try living in Baghdad, you sack of ungrateful shit! Yeah, I have a little perspective now. I'm sure my new biggest fan will enjoy all of this. I need perspective. I'm emotional. That's a given, as they say. I'm reacting to being castigated, that's natural, for me. I don't take well to working for anyone else. I'm a fucking Aries! I have to remain hopeful that I will find my path, or rather that I will choose my path and make it happen. In the face of melodramatic despair and sinking depression I have to remain the naturally optimistic person I am. Why do I feel this way? Why am I so destroyed? It must be the defeat. I am Mars, the Warrior, I cannot stand to lose. I can be a gracious loser, but to be subservient, subordinate, to allow punishment is not in my nature. I feel like a submissive, with no respect for my dom. Right now, there is no way out. Right now is lower than low. There is no optimism, no hope, just tolerance and patience, forced. I see me lying, "I threw up all night last night, must be food poisoning." Or maybe the ever popular, "I think I caught a stomach virus, must be a bug going around." But then I hate myself for taking a day for personal recovery when I need to be finding a job. More self loathing. Cost of the War in Iraq
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