Megsie

Someone asked me yesterday how I’ve been. The succinct answer is “I’m boring and bored” and perhaps I should stick with that; but four words does not a blog entry make, so you shall be regaled with the extended edition (four word blogs shall perhaps be forthcoming, followed, of course, by four-letter blogs). I’m boring and bored, as aforementioned. I haven’t been doing much. I look for jobs for a few hours every day, until I am too frustrated to continue. Most of the rest of my time is occupied lying in bed, trying to sleep, and thinking. Or playing Freecell and thinking. Or taking solitary walks and thinking. Thinking, thinking, thinking.

Thinking about my life and how this is not where I want to be right now. Not locationally, but vocationally. Thinking about words, like how I just made an internal rhyme in the last sentence and I’m not sure if either of those words should take the adverbial form, but I like it, and I’m not going to change it. Thinking about things that scare me, like unemployment, and family problems, and a body that feels like it’s falling apart. Thinking about things that make me angry, like my last job, or things that people did to me years ago that I really should forget, or Republicans, or people who drive too slowly, or crows’ incessant cawing, or my own apathy.

Thinking, thinking, thinking until my thoughts swirl and glom together.

Thinking that, with all this mental energy expended, I should have solved the mystery of the universe. Or, at least I should be able to solve my own fucking problems.

Thinking about conversations I have had, will have, or want to have.

Like yesterday, when my boyfriend discovered that I had been smoking again, even though he hates it. Even though a lot of people hate it. Even though I hate myself for it. I was only smoking because I was drinking. Well, because I was going to be drinking, and then because I was drinking, and then because I damn well wanted to. I wanted him to be angry, because then we could fight, and some of these thoughts could come tumbling out in words and they wouldn’t be in my head anymore; and all this animal aggression that kept my ancestors alive but is making me crazy would be released. I thought of what I would say and what he would say, and how I would respond, and mapped out the whole argument. I was excited. I haven’t had a good fight in ages. But we didn’t fight. We had a civilised discussion like adults.

How crushing; how dull.

My life is a Virginia Woolf novel. A phrase I found inscribed in green gel ink under the table of contents of my used copy of To the Lighthouse sums up my present feelings suitably: “Pointless, all pages”. Thank you, disgruntled anonymous reader.

Note: This is the third and final part of this little series. Strangely enough, it seems to have worked and I find myself having trouble summoning the rage necessary to motivate me to complete this. Not a bad thing. Before delving in, though, I would like to express my sympathies with the irate flight attendant who made such a spectacular end to his career at Jet Blue. Sometimes going down in flames is the only way to go.

Monday morning, after working 21 hours of over-time to complete The Move, I awoke to angry emails from the CEO: Why aren’t the networks up? Why was this couch moved? Why weren’t those pictures moved? Why aren’t the phones working? Where is my trashcan? Why wasn’t this done? Where is that? Why was this moved? When am I going to have this? WHY ARE YOU ALL SO INCOMPETENT?! By the time I got to the office, the angry emails had doubled, mostly with demands either beyond anyone’s control or in direct contradiction to what had been communicated before.

Never mind, I thought, he’s just stressed.

I quickly came up with a plan that met all of his demands which I had any responsibility over at all and emailed it to him. I would load the infamous couch into a company truck and return it to the old office building (never mind that two weeks prior I was told to bring the couch, and never told anything otherwise); I would get all the pictures and bring them to the new building (never mind that I was told that I had a week to move such odds and ends); I would get him a trashcan (never mind that he, his wife, and a friend had come in over the weekend to set up his office and insisted that they needed nothing else from me when I asked them). I sent the email. His response? Not good enough.

Very well. What would his lordship desire?

I located a trashcan and marched into his office.

“Here you go.”

“That’s not MY trashcan. Whatever. It will have to work.”

Exasperated to the point of sarcasm, I said (with all the semblance of sweet sincerity), “Oh, I’m so sorry. Tell you what, I will order you a gold-plated trashcan with your name engraved on it. Will that be sufficient?”

Three days later, I quit as his assistant (though I was still working for the company). He said I was a disappointment - not to my face, through the medium of my supervisor. In fact, he did not speak to me for the following week unless he absolutely had to. He would walk the long way to his office just to avoid walking past my desk, which was at the top of the stairs. When this was too much hassle he had me moved downstairs. I was laid off the week after I resigned as his assistant. I can’t say I miss it.

Ode To My (Former) Employer

Well, my dear, it’s been a year
And what a year we’ve had
I’ll fare you well and wish you to hell
Though it hasn’t been all bad

Some say you’re a dick, and you act like a prick
But I’d rather not dwell on your nob
Instead I prefer to calmly demur
And just say you’re an arrogant snob

Well, my man, I can’t say I’m a fan
But I don’t really wish for anything bad
I don’t hope you expire, or die in a fire
But I can’t say, given the news, I’d be sad.

With love,

Megsie