I am so bereft of words. I don’t mean to be, but I am. We’ll have to go very slowly and speak to particulars so that we can eke this one out. Currently, I’m watching Downton Abbey and adoring it. Adoring every littlest bit of it. It just blew my mind. Maybe that’s why I’m having such trouble concentrating and finishing this up as I should. It’s every five minutes going, blowing my fucking mind out of my fucking ears. For fuck’s sake.
There’s some famous line about obscenity being the lowest form of communication, somewhere I know this line exists, and it’s surely true, but it is also the most expedient. And certainly, I am further sure, the most cathartic.
I’ve decided not to go on to the next episode until I finish this up. So away we go and I’ll tell you first that today was not so terrible as it might have been considering yesterday was completely about me being too terrified to drive to work and not doing so and hanging about here at home wringing my hands over how hideous and shitty a person I was for just up and choosing not to work because it suited me. I worked very hard and got as much on top of the giant pile of crap that is my workspace as I possibly could. This also meant hearing about my absence in a weird way, as though a whole alternate universe where I didn’t work where I work and where others have to manage things and thankfully, joyfully, they got by. They could send an email with an attachment if they had to, they could! Sometimes I don’t believe this and I think this is why I feel so guilty leaving them alone with themselves, not just because there is a certain caregiving aspect of my office job which I never anticipated but has imbued itself into my work relationships, but because I think my presence often keeps them from trying what they should be able to try since they know they can just pass the work off to me and I can do it efficiently. They don’t have to learn how to send an email when really, in this modern era, how can they expect NOT to know? It actually is a good thing that I unexpectedly am not there because one day, I will plan it, and I will, unexpectedly for them, no longer be there.
So, last night I had a bit of a psychological tempest in a teapot and I watched Bridget Jones’ Diary and couldn’t get over how much I truly disliked Renee Zellweger and her whole 136 is disgusting and zaftig and how this kind of ridiculous, awkward, terrible person warrants a Mr. Darcy in her life and I felt like throwing punches out of the blue. Now, it seems so obvious about the misdirection of my anger that I feel a little irritated that I was so petty.
But sometimes, we’re just petty, miserable, goddamned motherfuckers. No two ways around it.
I realize now, that I’ve hit my quota, that there’s plenty else that could have been said and will now be pulled into the undertoad. The potential new friend who doesn’t seem all that interested in being friends. The new artwork for the project that I love. The driving. The food=bad. The scale=WTF, the two stools each with a cat primly settled on top and observing the silent scene with equanimity.