1) My new supervisor? He seems like a nice guy and whatnot, but he always has a lot of chest hair hanging out of his shirt. That just skeeves me out.
Additionally? You can always see the outline of his tighty whitey's underneath his pants. I want somehow to encourage him not to do such things, but I don't want it to appear I am checking him out, but I am MOST ASSUREDLY NOT. It's just that he's really short and I'm usually sitting down when he comes in, because if I stand up I am easily six inches taller than him and I can be really...I don't know. Imposing? Maybe.
Also? How do you say that?
"Hey, Supervisor Individual? By the way? I can totally see the outline of your underwear through your pants. Yeah. Yeah. I know. But, really? Maybe you should think about just submitting to the forty inch waist instead of trying to squeeze into the 38's. Embrace your inner thighs! EMBRACE THEM!"
Maybe that would work. I have my doubts.
2) Also? My new supervisor? He goes through my inbox all the time.
That? Makes me want to put the smackdown on him. Because? Hello? It's my inbox. I have things in my inbox that are not related to you. (I have two separate and distinct jobs at the same company. The two jobs have nothing to do with each other, at all) If you need something, how about ask me, "Hey Chick? Where is this item I need?" and then I will politely hand it to you.
It seems very simple to me.
I dunno. An inbox seems personal. Like...a purse or something. I wouldn't rummage through his man purse.
Okay, that came out wrong. Not THAT man purse.
Gah. Dirty minded people!
3) Big things are happening everywhere right now.
Seriously. If there was a plate to put all the hot mess going on in my life at this moment on, it would be so large it would cover Cleveland. And everyone would look at it and say, "That is one hot mess!"
And really? I just want a freaking break.
I just want the Universe to say, "For the love of really good Wisconsin cheese. Chick deserves a break. Let's NOT have horrible, life-altering things happen to her in triplicate. For at least a year."
It seems like a year isn't that much to ask. Maybe it is.
After a year of non-craziness, I would be well-rested. Relaxed. More able to deal with the day-to-day insanity.
Eh. Whatever. If wishes were nickels...I'd have a lot of freaking nickels.
4) I keep having these dreams? And in my dreams are people from my past. People I hardly even remember, like my ex-husband (and yes, I'm aware of how that sounds, and no, I don't care how that sounds). My mother-in-law. All these people that really hate me.
Which leads me to...
5) For reasons of which we will not speak, I'm getting a little paranoid.
Don't get me wrong. This is a public blog and people are finding it apparently and going to read it and whatnot, and that's fine. Totally fine. I've never said my real name on this blog, or my last name or my children's names. I'm cool with saying my husband's name because, really, how many hundred million Jason's are there in the world?
I honest to God never thought when I started this blog that anyone except my two good friends her and her would ever read it. And I am profoundly grateful and humbled by the hilarious, kind, fantastic people who do read and comment and delurk. It's amazing to me and you have no idea how it motivates me.
I suffer from depression.
Every single week, I see a therapist.
Every single day, I take medication.
I'm not ashamed of that, nor do I think I should be (so don't ask). It is who a part of who I am, and often a huge part of who I am is managing it.
I don't hear voices. I don't have more than one personality. I'm not bipolar.
I'm just, often, profoundly sad. For a lot of reasons, none of which I feel like I need to justify right now.
The point is, writing makes me happy. Writing has probably saved my life, more than once.
I know that what I write does not appeal to everyone. I know that I am a bit to sarcastic for a lot of people's tastes. I know that what I say and feel doesn't always come across the way I mean it.
And that's okay.
But worrying about people seeking me out? That scares me.
Knowing that people like what I have to say makes me feel like maybe I don't have to do things that I don't want to do for the rest of my life and maybe, just maybe I do have a potential future in writing and maybe everything COULD be okay.
Therein, lies my dilemma.
So I have no idea what the right thing to do right now is.
And part of me thinks that's okay. And part of me is a little weirded out.