Okay, so I’ve listed two topics here. I think they are really related in a lot of ways, so I’m combining the two into one great big thingy. So here goes . . .
“Revenge” “Have you ever rebelled? If you have, how did you do it?”
I wouldn’t consider it Rebelling.
I would consider it doing What is Necessary to Get My Point Across. If a few windows get smashed along the way or a few nights get spent in a jail, whatever. And the problem isn’t me, hellooo. If more people would do What is Necessary to Get Their Points Across, the world wouldn’t be so screwed up. I hate seeing people sitting back and getting taken advantage of by big mean businesses or government entities and stuff like that. People need to take a stand when they see an injustice. Maybe that’s why I like working in a law firm. That’s all these people ever do is take stands. I know it’s cool to hate lawyers and stuff these days, but honestly, I like what I see in the people I work with. In . . . terms . . . of . . how they do their jobs anyway. *pauses to think about how to describe the past few weeks’ occurrences* Okay, I won’t even get IN to how certain people around here operate their personal lives, not to mention the fact that their personal lives always seem to be popping up (ohhh, bad choice of words) in whatever closet I happen to open.
Of course, (moving on to Revenge now), I feel better when I get revenge by telling EVERYONE in the office every detail of what I’ve seen, and I do. I think the higher-ups know by now I’m the one who spreads all these “rumors” but they also know they can’t do anything about it because all the rumors are true. But, for the most part, I find revenge to be unnecessary. Most people who do something revenge-worthy end up being “punished” by their own doings and un-doings, or they, you know, escape to a New York Office before I have a chance to take revenge on them, or I’ll find that they just don’t need to me to take revenge on them because they are already punishing themselves.
What? What was I supposed to do? Believe me, I wanted to scratch his eyes out when I found them together, and I wanted to scratch her eyes out even MORE but the weird thing is I was totally mad at her for doing it with him but now I’m even MORE mad at her for leaving him and I don’t understand why anyone would be so callous as to just walk away and - - who cares. God, whatever. It’s not my problem.
But anyway, to provide a proper conclusion to my essay, I just have to say that rebellion is totally glorious and justifiable, while revenge . . . *looks down the hallway at a closed door* . . . revenge just has a way of working itself out.
136 'What doesn't kill us makes us stronger.' Do you agree or disagree? Why?
I absolutely agree!
I mean, look at all the things that haven’t killed me. I survived the murderous rampage of Hands Jerry. Hmmm, I hope he’s doing better these days. I survived getting arrested twice, once in front of all my co-workers, and once where I had to share a jail cell with . . . Lizzie. I survived, and actually kind of enjoyed, my subsequent trial, And speaking of trials, I’m surviving the trials and tribulations of my on again/off again love affair with Alan Shore, which he likes to claim has always been in “off” mode. That reminds me, my hairdresser says I need to start thinking of him in a more . . . avuncular way. Sigh. That which doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. That which doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. Anyway, back to the topic. All of these things have made me stronger. I can’t believe how much I’ve learned and grown emotionally just in the past year. AND I’ve managed to hold down a steady job AND I haven’t gotten arrested in quite a while AND my credit is totally under control right now. I just hope all these hardships I’ve been through don’t give me pre-mature wrinkles . . .
My favorite . . . tough crap Alan!!! . . . retreat. Sorry, just had to say that. Tough crap. You could have had me, but now you CAN'T. Do you get it? You had your chance and you blew it on The Squid.
Okay, whatever, my favorite retreat. Right now is the beach. I've perfected myself in a swim suit, and nothing makes me more happy in the summer time than flaunting it. I've got it. I know it. And I fully plan to enjoy myself this summer. I know Boston isn't famous for its beach community, but you know, here's all you have to do is "Take the Red Line to Broadway T station, then No. 9 or 10 bus to end of line; or Red Line to South Station, No. 7 bus; or Red Line to Andrew T station, No. 10 bus; or Green Line to Copley Station, No. 9 or 10 bus to end of line. Also: Red Line to JFK-UMass and walk to Carson." Where you'll find "Our prize for the most urban-feeling shore goes to South Boston, where you find Castle Island, L Street Beach,and Carson Beach. Here, the sunburned descendants of Irish brick masons share sand with elderly Vietnames e fisherwomen and Dominican middle-school students. You'll hear Cambodian and Creole mixed with the tinkling of the ice cream truck and the bumping bass of the 69 Boys; you'll smell hot dogs and salt water. You will also have to pause inyour conversation every few minutes as yet another jet plane roars low overhead on its way to Logan Airport."
I ripped that off from the Boston Globe, but I'm more than happy to credit them. That's where you'll find me this summer. Hanging out on the beach. My favorite retreat.
My other favorite retreat is shopping. There's something about shopping that makes me feel so complete. I suppose if I had a therapist they might tell me it's some sort of substitution for real emotions or connections with other human beings, but whatever. My tikki torches never forget to call me. My cappucino maker never screws around with other women. My stainless steel pepper mill never ceases to arouse. Shopping rocks. I know you understand.
My mother. Ok. I guess I’ll write about my mother. Anything to keep my mind off . . . The Squid. That’s right. I’m going to just pretend I didn’t hear the . . . I guess we’ll call it ‘ruckus’ . . . in his office the other day AND pay no attention to the graphic rumors flying around AND continue to believe those scratches on his face and neck and god knows where else are just from some inexplicable fall. I can ignore all of this. He’s still mine. Whether he knows it yet or not.
Anyway, back to my mother.
I guess the word mother can mean a lot of things. I mean, it’s just a word. It can just mean the person who gave birth to you, or I guess it can mean the person who raised you and cared for you. I’m not sure the best way to describe my mother. All I really knew, growing up, was that my mother was different. She was never traditional, and she always followed her own paths. Which is good! Believe me, it’s good. I totally admire this about her. It was really great how she traveled a lot, and explored a lot, and never got stuck in those awful ruts of having a traditional job or a traditional marriage. 'You only live once, don’t you,' she would say. But anyway, it seemed like she was always the happiest when my dad would come for visits. I remember them in his van, singing along to the radio. We never actually went anywhere, we just drove around and I would pretend we were a normal family, taking a normal Sunday drive. But we don’t really talk about him any more. I think her new boyfriend doesn’t like him. I wonder what Alan’s mother was like.
CURRENT TOPIC: "Close your eyes and think about what you've been missing in your life lately. It could be a person, pet, place, thing, occasion, feeling. Anything at all that you miss dearly."
It’s interesting that you asked me to close my eyes first. Because, you know, the answer sort of changes when I close my eyes. When I have my eyes open the answer is that I miss the cool suede corkscrew chairs which I had to sell when I went into that credit card debt dealio. But with my eyes closed . . . I honestly miss my grandfather. I only think about it when I have my eyes closed, maybe, or something.
It reminds me of a line in For Whom the Bell Tolls (yes I read classics! What in the hell made you think I didn’t?) Robert Jordan talks about the closeness he had to his grandfather and he mentions what a shame it was that there was so much “time” in between people like himself and his grandfather. And it is a shame. Why didn’t my grandfather and I get to share the same time frame? Maybe it’s mean, but I feel like I would have been better off having my grand father as a parent, instead of maybe, having my parents as parents. My grandfather was someone who provided . . . guidance, I guess would be the word. I think that’s something parents used to provide. I guess I wish I could have spent more time with him. It’s not fair that I lost him so soon. I could really use him now. I think the whole world could.
CURRENT TOPIC: At times, lots of people never tell us what they are really thinking. Who is the one person that you would really like to know what they are thinking (as far as how they feel about you), and why?
* * *
I used to always wish I could read minds. Can you imagine how fun that would be? You'd like, know, but the other person wouldn't know that you know. And they'd be so freaked out because you'd be able to, well whatever. Back to the topic. I'm sure everyone reading this knows who I'm going to talk about, so I'm not even going to say his name.
For a long time I wanted to know everything he was thinking, wondered how he felt about me, wondered if he knew how I felt about him. At first I assumed that if he did think about me, it was just some sicko pervy thought that I'd rather not know. But then . . . There are still a lot of things I wish I knew, but I don't think he always knows or understands what he's thinking. It's like, even if I could read his mind I'd probably still be completely confused. (You know, he probably thinks in that word salad language, which would explain why he started talking that way. Hmm. Hopefully Denny is taking good care of him)
But anyway, the other day after my trial I stopped wondering. It was like I suddenly just knew. When I looked at him and asked him to celebrate with me, I knew he wouldn't, that he couldn't. And the weird thing is I completely completely understood why he wouldn't or couldn't, and I'm not hurt by it at all - for some reason I actually feel complimented - but it does make me sad for him, in ways I can't explain. I guess the reason a lot of people don't say what they are thinking is because sometimes it is impossible to verbalize. I couldn't explain what exactly happened after the trial to an outsider, but I just know that when he asked me to stop, but then didn't stop me everything suddenly made sense. There are certain things and certain feelings which aren't meant to be put into words. They can't be. I guess that's why I kissed him. I knew he would totally get it, and then neither of us would have to explain anything or discuss it further. Plus, I knew a kiss was all I was going to get.
I mean, I’m still cool of course, but for a fifth grader, I was really cool. I was one of those girls who knew how to dress, who knew what to say, who knew which boys to like, and who knew which girls to . . . pick on. I was tall, blonde, and my very cool friends were like a fifth grade version of Veronica’s friends in Heathers. So, anyway, me and Colleen and Monica ruled the bus stop. We determined who got on the bus first, last, and the order in between. But anyway, the point of all this is I want to talk about a girl named Listie.
Listie. Bizarre name. Bizarre girl. She was younger than all of us, I think only in third grade, and she was sort of screwed in the head. She would have these, like, chronic panic attacks if she wasn’t allowed to be the first one to get onto the bus. I think she was afraid she might end up sitting with a boy or something. And she really dressed bad. She would wear stuff that was popular last year, or things just wouldn’t match. We couldn’t believe it.
Miles was 34. A stock broker. A man with a slight resemblance to Matthew McConaughey who was extremely conservative with his money and even more conservative with his political leanings. He had, over the course of his life, acquired a substantial nest egg and would be considered, by your average red blooded female, as a good “catch.”
But Melissa saw none of this. In fact, having already vowed to “hate” her hapless escort for the evening, she only saw him as something she would have to endure in order to get a free dinner and to shut up her friend who had set her up on this “date” in the first place. To be fair, she had arranged her hair and clothes in the most elegant way she knew, proving she was at least willing to do her part and allow Miles the privilege of being seen with her at whatever expensive restaurant he had hopefully chosen for this occasion.
However, she was NOT prepared for what greeted her as the car made an unexpected turn away from the elegant downtown restaurants and toward the convention center. As it approached she saw something frightening on the flashing autotron sign on the convention center marquis. “Destination: Financial Independence . . . Destination: Financial Independence . . . Destination: Financial Independence . . . ” it mocked in a continuous red scroll.
“Uhhhhhhmmm. Miles?” she refrained from pronouncing his name with too much sarcasm. “I thought we were going out to dinner?”
CURRENT TOPIC: What is the greatest sacrifice you've made for love?
Ok, first of all, love? Yeah. Second of all, why would I make sacrifices for it, or anything else for that matter? I don’t sacrifice. Life is hard enough already without making any additional sacrifices. I mean, look at what’s happened to me now! Here I am working on a whole different floor, with all these people I don’t even know, and there’s a freaky woman with some kind of eye twitch, and no one trusts me to do any work because they know I’m just here on the mean and unnecessary order of Ms. Schmidt *takes a breath and glares at cubicle wall* and I don’t know anything about what an “H.R.” person really does. Truth is, I don’t think they know. These people are seriously from a different planet.
Oh well, I guess it’s good resume material. And, it does give me better access to certain . . . things I wouldn’t otherwise have access to. And, hopefully it’s only temporary.
Anyway, back to the topic. I don’t think I’ve ever made a sacrifice for love. Unless you count the time I . . . well no, that wouldn’t count. Whatever. Why are we talking about this?
Duh. We all should’ve seen that one coming. The guy was totally weird, but I guess I really didn’t think he’d freak on Shirley and try to kill her! I mean, dude. All I can say is thank god for those typing lessons. I can’t even imagine what would have happened . . . And here I was honestly going to make an effort to be nicer to him, I really was. I mean, I kind of owe him one, but maybe it’s just as well that I didn’t. Can I just say I was completely and utterly CREEPED OUT when he called me the hot secretary who makes him nervous? *shudders* But you know, it is unfair how the partners were treating him. I mean, Alan and I couldn’t have won that case without him. The guy is a genius. Everyone takes advantage of his super brain, and then just – poof! – disregards him when they don’t need him anymore. Uncool.
But whatever. I’m just still just trying to recover. I am happy for Mr. Chase though. He seems to fit in really well with the partners. It’s just too bad everybody can’t be a partner.