Here are some fun facts about not working for a bit:
My fingernails are a lot less bitten. They haven’t looked this OK for months and months.
I haven’t had coffee for almost a full two weeks. Damn, I like a good cup of tea, but I needs the speed at work (Pretensious literary aside: I just had a hot copy of tea with chilled fresh cherries. Feels all Russiany, Tolstoyian, Chekovian tasty, I guess I’ll go start a revolution. Step one — Become alienated from the labor inflicted on you by the ruling class – CHECK. Step two…)
I am not able to be comfortable with the facts that (a) I have heard from noone at work and (b) still and all some people are reading this shit from there (even still). Either the word is out that no one is allowed to talk with me (and everyone obeys) or nobody really gives a flying fuck about where/why I disappeared. Here’s a seed for the wankers still spying on me — Um, how can you know what is true and what is disinformation, huh? Remember, I’m the tool who might snap, so how can I be trusted? Or, I’m not really, I’m as sane as (but less nosy than) you, so why would I help you in my own demise?
In re work: Can’t even ascribe to the “be a friend/make a friend” group hug, nicey nice homily, since no way I can call a place that thinks I’m on the edge; can’t afford to seem all stalky-stalky and find myself on a warning poster.
Having a convertible in June and free time rocks and gives me a nice tan. Hard to let the bitterness creep into my darkest heart when I have the iPod on completely random and the top down tooling around town.
I haven’t worn real shoes in a couple of weeks now either (Sandals are less creepy than pantsless).
And, last a ZEN KOAN: if work wants to fire you, but in the outside world you’ve heard from a mess of friends and family attesting to your relative sanity, is the real mental illness spending even a moment extra at work?
