Nikki's last day at [insert name of big company here] is TODAY. Plus, Moonrat and Nikki are on the rocks since last night's "race riot." (Nikki's words, not mine.) And, I feel a weekend of hard conversations with my sister looming.
I feel awful and my fingers unmotivated to finish writing about my vacation that happened ages ago, it feels like. There will be a river of tears coming from this Bluenana's face very soon. I'll try to remember to stay hydrated.
I don't usually use this blog as a forum for describing the trials of my job, a la Editorial Ass, but I am so mired in all kinds of self-hate right now that I desperately need an outlet.
I work for two editors, but only one of them really matters. That is, I only care about what one of them thinks of me. He--who shall remain nameless--is like many of his kind: arrogant, insensitive, self-congratulatory, and painfully intelligent. As a manager, he never really gets worked up about anything, so I never live in fear of a yelling, a tantrum, or irrational anger. I do, however, live in fear of feeling inadequate.
I'm trying to buy a book (hurrah!) and I submitted my draft of acquisitions materials to my editor this afternoon. Within minutes, he stood at my cubicle and said, "You're usually very good at this, but this is quite possibly the worst selling point I've ever read" and proceeded to read aloud from my acquisitions material. After the public shaming (I'm in a cubicle in an open office environment), we went back to his office so he could instruct me in Proposal Writing 101. "Step 1, you should...blah blah blah."
Now, I'm trying to rally my spirits and "get back on the horse," but it feels impossible at this moment. Blech. I am a tiny dot on an endless sheet of paper. I can't even grieve properly...I've gone from denial to depression. What happened to anger? I'm a much better writer pissed off.
Perhaps I'm not cut out for this job and have been in denial for the last three years. Perhaps I should start looking into a new line of work, maybe one with decent pay. I hear construction pays well. Shit, I'm probably better with a hammer than I am with a keyboard. Hate hate hate.
My shack burger, cheese fries, and three berry pie concrete were delicious, but they've dropped like a rock into my troubled stomach.
I think I deeply hurt Moonie's feelings this afternoon and I'm feeling awful about it. It was some poorly timed and only-funny-in-my-head comment about her uncharacteristic tweed suit and pearls outfit and something about growing up white in Connecticut. Yeah, I know, I know. Anyway, I'm feeling so bad that I wish I hadn't eaten 4,000 calories worth of delcious grease and sugar tonight. Oh well. I said I was sorry, but it wasn't enough and I don't know what will be enough. And when a person's mad at you and you feel bad about he/she being mad at you and he/she says that he/she's not mad anymore because he/she doesn't want you to feel bad, it's a lie. He/She is still mad at you and will remember this incident like ammunition for the next fight, if there is a next one.
Sigh. A sour burger surrounded by unhappy, negative stomach acids, and a guilty conscience make for a very unhappy and blue Blue.
I'm home sick again today obviously because the fates can't cut me some slack and let me feel better. This is St. Louis's parting gift to me for hating that shithole city so much.
I'm completely congested, my throat feels sore, I have a fever, and I can't breathe. Grrrr. Yes, I want your pity. Or this t-shirt, please.
What does one do when wallowing in self-pity and indifference towards one's job/career/future? One shall spend the entire weekend watching Netflixes. This weekend's menu:
1. The Wire: Season 2, Disc 1
2. The Wire: Season 2, Disc 2
3. Dead Like Me: Season 1, Disc 1
I know, it's an odd combination. My general rule of thumb is never to watch multiple TV series at the same time...ruins the palette. I was told by Nikki that I needed to prepare myself with season 2 since it was very different from season 1 and, in her opinion, not as good. In that case, I decided to add a little garnish of Dead Like Me as an intermezzo, a palette cleanser should I need to run screaming from The Wire.
