Caterwauling

I worked 80-plus hours a week for five years.

Trump still has a job and I don’t.

Whose pussy do I have to grab to get a fair shake in this stupid world?

Homeless, jobless, sick and Trump’s still president.

What a great fucking day.

Had a salad at the mall with one of my boys, as is our Wednesday tradition.

We figure it’s a good supervisory session. We sure talk about the thing our jobs revolve around an awful lot. And it’s nice to do so as we power-walk and wind up in Starbucks for our afternoon java.

Today he asked what my title is. I mean, he knows it’s “his boss.” “But what does that mean to them?” he wanted to know.

He’s not trying to be anything other than curious. Because my boss and my boss’ boss called a meeting with him this afternoon. Why am I not a part of it?

If it were anywhere else, I’d wonder and worry and lobby to be in with the in crowd. But here, if I’m not babysitting everything else, someone would start playing with matches and burn the place down.

When I got the title, it was basically, “Just keep doing everything you’ve been doing for the past six years.” You know, under a lesser title.

I mean it about the babysitting though. I told him a string of six stories from today alone — from having to tell someone that you cannot spell it “thrown” in print when it’s what a king sits on, and that you should know how many newsletters Guy XYZ writes, and that if I ask you to do something and you ignore me without giving me a reason why you don’t think it’s a good idea, you don’t get to be mad when I assume you just don’t read your emails in full — and he was like wow.

As in, wow — all those ideas in your head and brainpower and knowledge and HISTORY … sitting idle.

Yeah I’m not going to take over the world at this rate. But at least the poop and throw-up I clean up is mostly metaphorical. And it beats doing it all by myself. And when the time comes that that changes, I am pretty sure I have the power to make that happen.

Today marks six years of my captivity, officially.

The first day of this month marked six months in the current incarnation of said captivity.

Ran into an old friend on Saturday, from my earliest days. He has a job he loves and an offer pending that came in out of the blue, and at a higher salary.

Good choice to have. Not a Sophie’s Choice, like I tend to attract.

I was thinking about how happy he looked, as sickness from too much “peopling” washed over me as thick as the dread at the daily peopling I didn’t miss at all Friday and Monday.

And then one of my truly favorite people on this earth paid me a visit.

And then another came in, armed with fresh macarons from Paris for his favorite editor.

It’s probably safe to say today has peaked.

Otherwise, I can’t escape today because I lost my stupid pass to get in and out of Fort Hard Knocks. And I am due for a visit from the fashion police lieutenant.

But I’ll be OK.

At least a couple people have my six, and I have theirs. And today, that is enough.

In my head, I’ve written a flurry of furious blog posts. In reality, meh.

Today I prefer to think about last night’s dream, in which I found the ever-elusive unicorn — a man I am attracted to.

Maybe it was Meghan McCain announcing her engagement, as crudely and obnoxiously as anything delivered out of her stupid mouth. I thought she was gay. (I still think that.)

As for me, I’ve been feeling pretty asexual this past decade or so. So, good to know there’s still something stirring down there in the ol’ beaver moon. (That’s tonight, dontcha know.)

In any event, he was rich. Tall. Had an awesome butt. Never quite knew myself to be a butt girl. But I was grabbing it in the dream and rather enjoying it. He had a mansion by the beach. And long hair. Helloooooo gorgeous!

Of course, as dreams do, they serve up the uncomfortable. He was a private citizen. Sheltered. Wasn’t used to going out in public because he and his family were regarded as royalty. So anytime we went out in public, we had to be “appropriate.”

Which, I’m not exactly a PDA fan anyway. But damn. Put restrictions on my behavior and I’m going to rebel. Especially with someone that damn hot.

I got sick of it all in the end. Being around other people did me in. I wanted to introduce him to my world, and he was so happy to be in it. But I needed a break. Not a long one, but definitely a day to myself.

And I wondered if I will always be this way — ready to bolt at the first sign of anything real.

I guess I always thought if I found something right, I wouldn’t want to bolt at all. This worried me long after I awakened.

In any event, doesn’t this beat hearing about how I got bullied into a sham of a Halloween costume contest and made an enemy as I squirmed out of it? (And why is squirming/bolting somehow the theme that holds my life pieces together?)

Today marks six months of my captivity.

A girl reminded me of a conversation we had on my first day …

Me: “Nice to see you. How are you?”

Her: “Living the dream.”

Me: “This is like no dream I ever had.”

I heard from quite a few people shortly afterward how “negative” I was. I figured out the connection real quick. Eventually she got to know me and realized that sarcasm is about the only speed I have. Now we’re cool.

In any event, my response on Day 1 was dead-on. No dream I ever dreamed could have have prepared me for this. To say the least.

The very least.

#toostressedtofeelblessed