it's 8:45 pm, on February 17, 2006 - so many fishes, but none for me.
~
I have this problem.
Remember the extremely hot man from work? The one that's roughly 15 years older than I am? Yeah. So. That's flared up with a vengeance, much like some kind of heat rash, all itchy and uncomfortable, and having only vague cures that don't really work, like aloe vera and lotions that are only a temporary balm against the incessant need to scratch.
My timesheet this week says I worked 64 hours. most of that overtime was with Paul, which hasn't made the situation any better. I drank two beers in quick succession after hours today and sat there, whilst things printed ad nauseum, wondering when the beer would hit. Apparently it was, thank Christ, on the bus home, rather than in the office, or I might have ended up propositioning him to make it in the boardroom.
To get back to the heart of the matter, this is my problem: I am one hundred percent aware of the pathetic aspect of this insane attraction. It's like if a dog, chasing its tail, could see the inevitable disappointment as well as the utter futile absurdity of its actions. I see it, and yet I cannot prevent it. Most people, the more I get to know them, the less I like them. Like, really. With Paul, I like him more. It's getting to the lowest level - to that point where it's spilling into more than just wanting to make it in the boardroom. yeah. that's going to go over well in the annual reviews.
Such a problem. at least I didn't proposition him. tonight.
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as my timesheet has 64 hours this week, I don't have a lot of creative things to share with you all, but here's a text message I sent Al that feels strangely appropriate. It is also probably the only creative thing I have done all week, aside from the two lines of poetry I pasted at you yesterday. Wednesday? January? Whenever.
Bobby loved remy temporarily, just in case - it meant each day was a pleasant surprise.
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I thought I was done, and then. a postscript, as one would say.
this is the dream: you're walking back to your car, in a parkade you've never been to. paul is there, of course, as you've spent most of your waking hours in his company in the last two weeks. it's possible he's offering to walk to you your car again. anyway, in the stairwell up to the other level, a gang of people attacks you, and they hit you over the head - like, seriously, bring some blunt instrument down onto the top of your head. you can feel the blow, and you can feel yourself crumpling down.
The reason they attack you, they say, is somehow beneficial to you - like now they've attacked, you can keep your gun? anyway, that's what they say, only you are stressed and upset and overflowing with anxiety now, much like a cup that's overfilled. you can barely acknowledge your emotions, much less deal with them, as you are so over-taxed because of the hit and the other things.
also, right, you have a gun that you found in the parkade. it's loaded, and yet non-threatening, more just an object to acquire. so anyway, after these guys attack and you're upset and taxed, a security guard stops you, and asks about the gun. somehow, it's very important you keep the gun. he asks where you got it, and you tell him in the parkade, that it isn't even loaded, though it was. you're more afraid now, because you think he might take it away, and also you're dizzy and groggy. he shakes his head, pityingly, because he thought you got it off the -- the gang? and now you're on their hit list? but you just found it in the parkade.
you wander around this parking garage for a while, in a daze, nauseous and dizzy and lurching because your skull was cracked with a baseball bat or a crowbar or something. right about when you're leaning over some metal railing, thinking you might throw up - maybe Paul was there, too - the snooze alarm goes off for what's like the fifteenth time.
you barely make it to the train on time.
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it's weird. I've never had that sensation, but I clearly remember the nausea and dizziness, and the fear and upset being over-taxed - there's no other way I can describe it, like you are so anxious and worried that your brain has refused to let the entirety of your emotions out in case you overload, so instead your left with this physical nervousness that knots your muscles and clenches your stomach. you know you're overloaded and stretched to the breaking point, but you can't quite identify the emotions that have brought you there. then add in the head trauma, that was vaguely like being drugged.
anyway, I remember that, but not why the gun was so important. I think something else was involved too, like a flashlight.
When I first thought of describing this dream, I was trying to remember it, and it felt surreal and bizarre and completely incomprehensible. but when I first starting writing it down - attackers that thought they were doing a favour, Paul in the background, parking garage, feelings of overwhelming anxiety - it really seemed kind of sadly obvious.
~
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