THURSDAY, 29 JUNE, 2000, PHILADELPHIA

I AM SO FUCKING FUCKING AT THE END OF MY FUCKING ROPE RIGHT NOW. I AM SO FUCKING FRUSTRATED THAT MY HANDS ARE SHAKING AND I CAN HARDLY FUCKING CONTAIN THE FUCKING OBSCENE INVECTIVES THAT FUCKING RUN LIKE A FUCKING BROKEN RECORD THROUGH MY SHORT-CIRCUITED FUCKING BRAIN. I AM SO FUCKING STRESSED THAT I AM TYPING WITH CAPSLOCK — AND ON PURPOSE EVEN! Wow. That was powerful. I’ve never written in all caps before. I can’t really say it was effectively cathartic, nor do I feel good about how all caps look, looming above my current, relatively more lucid rant. No, decidedly, the CAPSLOCK key is not our friend. But honestly, mes amis, I had no choice. It was CAPSLOCK or utter implosion. I am about to write something that I have never written before, and for very good reason. I am about to actually type out four little words that I have gone to great trouble and suffering throughout my life so that I might be able to avoid ever having to write them. I am about to write a very short, one sentence paragraph that, in its own small way, is a sign of defeat — and Leos don’t take well to defeat. I’m ready to tell you my secret now… I see dead people. Okay, ha ha, that wasn’t it. Here it is for realsies. I hate my job. Wow. There. I said it. That’s two powerful things I’ve never done before — saying that, and writing in all caps. I don’t think I could have stomached doing both at the same time however. I’m one of those really weird people in the minority who believes that one’s work should be at a place one enjoys, doing what one enjoys. I’m one of those weirdos who thinks that it is possible to be happy at work. Furthermore, I am one of those people who will not for a moment abide toiling away at a job that actively instills hostility, resentment, distress (as opposed to eustress, which is acceptable), or ulcers within me. I have spent my adult life contracting and freelancing for the most part, so loathsome and perilous is such a rut as a full-time cage to my psychological make-up. I have suffered extended, belt-cinching financial dry spells inherent in a contractor’s lifestyle with equanimity because even the worst freelance gig was better than being pinned down in a full-time thing which has soured. So, hey, that’s me. Whatever. I just wanted to qualify my little confession with an ounce of history so that one might better gauge its weight. It was very difficult for me to write that sentence. This. Is. An. Aggravating. Day. Once again, I find myself doing precisely the things that I hate most about this job, even though my Thursdays are hard-wired to be “Marquis Gets To Do His Own Backlogged Work” days. First thing in the morning I spoke with a certain user who is, I think, retired from the college, yet saddles my department with endless, and often repetitious and redundant questions. Which we will patiently answer until the next time he calls, five minutes later, to ask the same question again. My reserve of patience for this kind of bullshit is, at last, in deficit. I used to be able to cope all day with people like this. Bit by bit, my tolerance would ebb, giving me uncomfortable twangs of ennui by the end of the day. Slowly, the ennui would move earlier and earlier, and today hit a new nadir, ten minutes after I arrived at work this morning. I spoke with this particular user four or five times initially, though I was struggling to keep my nice-nice voice on. He was not listening. He was not following instructions. He was maddening. After a particularly gruelling call when the letter “M” proved to be elusive to him on his keyboard, I slammed down the phone, felt a jolt of rage explode in my head and shot out of my chair. I vaguely recall it spinning out behind me knocking into something loudly. “GOD FUCKING DAMN TWAT!” I screamed involuntarily, or something along those lines. Dear Tiffany was standing in front of me at that moment. Tiff? You there? Sign in, please. Were you scared or amused? I couldn’t tell which. I was seeing red. Everyone else in the room just played it quiet-like and low-key — probably the best plan of action. I scootled over behind a wall and crumpled to the floor and convulsed for a moment or two. Reminiscent of more post-coital moments, but without all the fun. Few deep breaths. Soothing mantra or two. Derailed. Trying to get back on track. Managed to assemble a masquerade of sanity, though the episode this morning has broken something within me, and things will never quite be the same again. It was just the proverbial Straw, you see. To further tighten the thumb-screws of the day, for some reason the lilting, tepid strains of R&fuckin’B have been ubiquitous. Now, you must understand that I am a great lover of music, and I can find merit in most every genre — even country! But there is nothing of value in R&fuckin’B. It’s like taking a black woman with a moderately well-toned voice but no training, and sticking her Lee Press-On into a light socket and recording the sounds she makes. I’ve worked it out in musical notation. The common (and, frankly, trite) phrase from one of the many “I love you baby’s” that are so pervasive in R&fuckin’B could very well be sung thus: However. Electrified black women sing it thus: And that’s just not necessary. Nor arty. Nor appealing. Nor original. Nor clever. Nor meritous of any complimentary adjective you can name. It’s dull and trite and, worst of all, aggravating. Mariah Carrey, may you die a slow and horribly painful death. So yah, anyway, in my office, in passing cars, in the salad bar, fucking everywhere today are these cat-in-heat calls of “I love you baby’s”. I am ready to start mailing bombs to people. Every day has its silver lining however. Five day holiday weekend starting in three hours, and I am very pleased to be entertaining an actual imaginary friend (to use Pinch’s term defining internet friends one has never met in the flesh)! Mademoiselle Badjuju who writes the very sharp, very insightful, and very funny “Diary of a Stripper” is on holiday from Scotland — and such a fan am I that I have coerced her into staying at my château for a few weeks while she shakes her callipygian ass around Philadelphia. I will also be encouraging her to write about it, as usual, and will lend her this very computer to do so. So you see. Black day. White day. Always living at both extremes.