The Philiac


There could be any number of clevernesses to harness for today’s post.  There could be any number of stories to tell, if not stories, than a recording of instances and a demand that they fit into some sort of theme.  Like the guy who shouted “Hey girl!” from his truck at me when I was walking to deposit my check which clashed against this weird mental thought process of realizing my hair was kind of Pre-Raphaelite-looking and I was wearing a dress I don’t hate and this trenchcoat I don’t hate and there was a very tangible sense of not hating myself.   And it made me jump, because there was already a dog lunging at me through a rickety fence on the way over, and I wasn’t thinking about anything but this notable emotion.  It definitely didn’t add on hate, but nor did it add on love.  Just shock.

However, walking outside was nice, in this greyish, low-energy afternoon.  Another thing you forget you’re capable of when you’re stressing at your office job.  But we had a tiny one-day reprieve from the stresses and I was leaving early to eat some comp time so walking a block or two felt like a good use of my time.  I do like walking, though I am not a big fan of being drug around by a dog who stops every minute to smell something and has to be forcibly pulled to get to trotting again.  I don’t like having to keep up with anyone or pay attention to anyone or talk to anyone when I’m walking.  It used to be that I would walk everywhere at school.  It was too close by inches to bother with a bus, but a fair distance to anything.  I had to go to class, though, there wasn’t any thought in my dippy, good-girl head to skip classes, so rain or shine, I toddled myself everywhere.  I remember thinking all sorts of profundities, making all sorts of stories and promises to myself, feeling like such a self-contained unit just powering through this trial of university education.  Particularly that last semester, out of step, out of time, trudging in the snow, thinking about going overseas, thinking about boys, thinking about how I could get the hell out of there.

That feeling of deciding that regardless of low-carbs or high carbs, the caffeine and sugar has to be regulated because it is my enemy.  It is holding my head underwater.   I can flipping drive myself home without this menace in my head, fucking me around.

That maybe I did something positive for the office, in a weird, roundabout way.  We’ll have to see.  There was a need and I found some candidates to fill that need which should potentially help all of us.  Depending.  It could also be a negative if they don’t work out, but we’ll be positive.

That writers group was fine.  I’m glad I went.  I don’t know how to help these people.  I don’t know how to help myself.

I just want to lay on the floor and scream myself hoarse.

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