Friday. I need more coffee, but it's upsetting my stomach, so I'll sit here and drink a diet lime coke instead. I think I'm addicted to them. Nothing else tastes good anymore. It's a lovely, gray, rainy day, which suits my mood perfectly. I have a meeting to go to where things will undoubtedly escalate into a poo-flinging contest, but I have to go anyway. I would try not to say anything at this meeting, but my boss asked me for input about problems we're having with support from this other area, and lo and behold, my input became the agenda. I guess I'll get through it, but I don't have the heart for this kind of confrontation right now. I'll probably end up kow-towing to save face, since I don't want to break down in front of these guys. It's already been a stressful morning, since today's the last day to order stuff on this fiscal year's budget, and my boss came in at 5:30 last night needing two color laser printers and five laptops ordered. My procuremet card is maxed, unless they've already cleared the balance for processing purposes, so I ordered two printers on another girl's p-card, then used hers for two of the five laptops, then tried to see if they would sandwich the other three on mine. I finished placing the order two minutes before the billing manager came in to tell me not to order anything else because of some mixup she'd had. So I'm in the doghouse - but what else is new. I stay in the doghouse so much I've gone ahead and started the re-decorating process - might as well enjoy my frequent stays.
Here I stand again, speaking to an empty room. My thoughts aren't worth the cyberspace they would take up if I cared to tweet or post to Facebook, but here I stand anyway. I had no idea how long it had been since my muse had forced me to write. I used to write almost daily, poetry mostly, when I was younger and believed that someone cared what I had to say. I wanted to be e.e. cummings or T.S. Eliot or anyone who seemed to be so comfortable in his own skin to pour out his emotions onto a blank page. It took me a few years to realize that the writers who filled my pantheon of literary deities were not that comfortable after all, but wrote because not writing was more painful than the spilling of emotion. So I think I will take up my keyboard once more, wade out into the battle, and write.
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