What I wouldn't do for a drink

I wish I could get totally fucking sloshed. Vodka shots till my head exploded. Welcome to mood swing central.

Fuck.

I was feeling great yesterday, and today every little thing makes me want to scream, or throw my computer monitor at the next fat person who treats me like a stupid infant.

Today I got the immensely satisfying and stimulating job of putting thousands (literally) of contest entry forms that were sent in to us for some stupid contest---my job was putting them in alphabetical order by city. Whee.

And just a million other little things, like the burping fat woman who stands behind my chair and watches what I do even though she doesn't need to and then has me make her some labels.

Why the hell am I complaining? I'm being paid all right. But they obviously are in dire need of an editor for their marketing material-- why can't I do that? Because I'm better at making labels? Ok.

Today was the first time in a long time where I felt UGLY. I still do. My face has broken out, my hair was just--guh. Horrible. And I see all these girls with their perfectly smooth hair and made up faces, clothes without fucking white fuzz all over it and I sit there like a frizzy frump in pink and feel HORRIBLE.

Then I had a meeting right after work and was surrounded by people who belong to a group I am not a part of although they don't know that--and one asks me who I married and I know all they really want to know is if he is one of THEM or not, which he isn't. I always knew I wouldn't marry one of them. So then she says "but he's going to be, right?" Fuck no. It's up to him. Leave me alone.

I'm not a bitter person. But I'm getting there. The idea of me being some bitter, bitchy, sarcastic, jaded bitch scares me. But I can see myself getting there, especially now.

I got out of the meeting and called Tomek to let him know I"m on my way home, looking forward to curling into a ball under my quilts and letting him rub and kiss all the anger away (because I am SO not responsible for my own condition, you know?)... but instead he tells me he's gotta go pick up his mom and drive her to where their van got fixed. That's gonna take at least 2 hours. Plus they'll probably want him to visit.

Which is FINE. I know it is. There is nothing wrong or out of the ordinary about a son helphing his parents out. it's to be commended. But it pissed me off. I think it's the last-minute ness of it all that bugs me. That he or we have to drop everything we might have been doing or had planned (like consoling ME because i had a bad day for fucks sakes) and go help them. I'd do the same happily for my own parents. But it still bugged me.

THEN, I come home to a) an empty apartment except for an incessently squeaking guinea pig that I just want to flush down the toilet b) a sink and counter full of dirty dishes and c) a sinkful of dirty dishes covered in fucking COFFEE GROUNDS. YUCK!!!

But at least the apartment is empty so I can listen to Stabbing Westward and just simmer in my bad mood while the pot with my dinner in it boils over on the stove.

I met the lead singer of formerly Stabbing Westward and now The Dreaming once in Seattle. tom and I went down to their show (when they were The Dreaming) and afterwards the band was hanging out by the bar (small venue) and Tom went right over and started chatting. He knew the lead singer was one of my idols and inspirations... so then he introduced me, and instead of showing off my pubic tattoo like the girls before me, I started asking him questions, like which cd he felt most reflected him, etc. I think he thought I was strange. Oh well.

Do you remember?
I still remember so much
I remember never feeling so alive
Do you remember?
I still can't forget your touch
We swore that we would never end
And that our love transcended space and time