Velouria (velouria) wrote,

  • Mood:

The Drugs Don't Work.

I am a tremendous fag. What I would like to be is a cocooned butterfly. Or moth. Or whatever it is in the cocoon. I don't care if I never emerge as a butterfly, I never want to emerge. I don't belong in the real world.

I spent the first half of my first morning on the new job decorating, and the next half sitting in my extremely exposed cubicle looking around dumbly at all the women I'm surrounded by. It's Personnel, so there are no dudes. I don't think all the ladies were impressed with my pretty pink cubicle. I don't think they were impressed, period. I don't think they thought I was cute. Why would a bunch of ladies think I'm cute?

About noon, I just started to cry. It really hit me that this was permanent. My life with dudes was over. I continued crying on through my 2:30 one-on-one meeting with my new boss. She explained in unholy detail the kind of crap I'd be doing, and I understood not a word of it. What the hell is she talking about, I thought, my eyes welling up with tears. I pretended to sneeze as she, completely oblivious, emailed me the documents she was droning on about.

"Allergies," I said.

Then I went  to the bathroom and cried some more. Big, weepy, sobs. I felt like I had felt when my mom first attempted to drop me off at kindergarten in 1986. If you can imagine, I wasn't having it. Go from sitting in jimmy jammies all day in front of Mr. Rogers to being herded like cattle into a crush of screaming, writhing 5 year-olds and some sadistic teacher who wasn't my mom? As if!

I wish I could still tell my mom I had a stomach ache and she would keep me home. She would shield me from it all.
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