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Miserable, Party of One
2 June 2004
4 13:55

I am a miserable individual.

I hate my job, for it makes me miserable. I realised this morning that the very act of going to work in the morning ruins my day and my mood. And this is the place where I spend the majority of my waking hours, where I expend the majority of the energy I can spare on thought.

And now, on my lunch break, cute boys walk past me as I sprawl across this chair in the bookstore writing, and I hate them, for they make me miserable. They whisper to each other, possibly about me. They are impossibly thin; I am incapable of sticking to either my diet or my exercise regimen. Where do I fuck up?

Thursday night, after rehearsal, I allowed myself to be convinced to go out for the usual beer and bad Mexican food. I wasn't going to drink or eat anything, but I was sitting next to the most annoying and least competent of our sopranos, who has tragically suddenly become social, and if I didn't drink, I was going to be miserable or drive the utensils of my place setting through her eyes and into her brain (the latter would've been the better option). The company was unusually boring, and the food was even more wretched than I'd anticipated. My only respite lay in downing pints of Dos Equis, which I also loathe.

After driving a couple of the guys home, I went home and shoved the handle of my toothbrush down my throat 'til I was pretty sure I'd vomited out all the offensive matter. Even then, I didn't feel much better, so I lay down on the couch and slept, rather than going out to bid Karl (who was leaving town forever, moving to Houston) farewell. (We've drifted apart over the last year or so. His fault as much as mine, I suppose. I never go out with the gayboys anymore, and anytime I do, he seems to have grown more bitter and angry. Hmm...Pot, kettle, anyone?)

Friday, I might've done okay, except I poured myself a martini after work. It was much needed. I only drank a third of it before passing out on the couch in front of the television. I had called Patrick, as we'd agreed, when I got home, about watching a movie, but he was busy watching something else and sounded like he didn't want to see me, so I said he could call me back if he decided he was interested. By the time he phoned, I was already asleep. I woke around 2.45 in the morning with a text message from him, which I returned and went back to sleep.

Ya lookin' at yerself standin' there alone, boy? That mirror'll never tell ya no lies.

Saturday, I was pretty good. Sunday, too. I was in the fucking office both days, preparing for the arrival of new employees, one of whom did not deign to show up on Tuesday, so I didn't get to cruise for sailors in the City, as I'd planned to do. Monday, I fucked up at lunch, as I had a cheeseburger and French fries. I ate the bun and the fries and downed about three pints of ale.

Fuck you, Dr. Atkins; your diet doesn't work for shit, and it makes me miserable. I skipped all the yummy things I could've had at rehearsal last night -- brownies, strawberry shortcake, ice cream, chips, salsa, pretzels -- but today at lunch, the tuna I'd brought myself to eat was more than I could bear, so I went and had an EB. (There's a diner-type restaurant around the corner from the office called the Educated Burgher, where the house special is, you guessed it, the Educated Burgher, or "EB". It's a hambuger with Swiss cheese, onions, and mushrooms, and it comes with fries. I add mayonnaise, mustard, ketchup, spicy relish, and dip the fries in both mayo and a combination of ketchup and hot sauce. Yes, I am a sick individual.) Now, I can scarcely stay awake, but I'm nutritionally contented.

I promise myself I won't eat dinner, and I'll go to the gym and work out like a fiend, but I know it's a lie. Why do I have to have MY body? Why can't I be one of the tall, lanky, naturally athletic, impossibly gorgeous boys who eat whatever they want and still look like fucking fashion models? And I know it's wrong. And I know it's put on me by the media and all the fucking gorgeous buff idiots who have nothing to do with their time but go to the gym. And I hate them. And I want to be them. And I know it could be worse, but WHY CAN'T I?! ("Anyone Can Whistle", anyone?) I want ice cream, but I don't have any cash, and it would only make me feel worse anyway. A thunderstorm is starting. I think I'll go outside and play...or maybe just sleep.

r

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