Sunday

A Week’s Worth of Monologues: Sunday

Crap…I feel like crying. I’m such a girl. I hate being a girl. Except, I like the not having body hair…Eww, or facial hair. And I like being pretty...er...non-manish. Oooh, and doing my nails. But I hate crying. There is no excuse for it…so somebody yelled at you. So somebody else called you a bitch and a cunt and then threatened to hit you. So you left work at 12am in the bad part of town, and when you walked down the middle of the street to avoid a creepy man staggering on the sidewalk, a car up ahead did a U-turn to pull up beside you because they thought you were a hooker… Hmmm….well, okay, that part wasn’t great.

Work is angsty…why is work so angsty? Is it me? Am I burnt out? How does one know if they are burnt out…I don’t FEEL burnt out. I imagine that I would feel more dark, or bitter, or crispier…? But I guess the analogy only goes so far.

Maybe I’m realizing that, with my new job starting tomorrow, that my relationship with this job can only take me so far…and so I’m finding excuses to get upset so that the inevitable parting will be less painful, much like a teenager getting into screaming matches with his manic depressive mother before announcing he‘s ditching this dump to go live with his girlfriend Cheryl in her grandmother‘s basement…much like that.

Well, if that is the case, it’s a very nice thought of the part of my subconscious, but preparing to leave is a wee bit premature. I haven’t started the new job yet, and I’m only starting as a casual. There’s no guarantee of becoming full time…and who knows if I’ll actually like it, or be good at it, or if it will in any way be better than my old job…so, No. If that is what you’re doing, subconscious, then you are being ordered to cease and desist. I am repressing you. You are henceforth repressed.

...No, thank you, sir, I would not like any heroin. It was kind of you to offer, though.