Take Me Home or Lose Me Forever

I came home from work Tuesday in the midst of what could best be described as a “blinding white hot rage capable of melting those clip-on earrings right off your grandma’s ears.”  I sat down and wrote a few paragraphs about it, edited out the woe-is-me parts, and then decided to sit on it for at least 24 hours.  This is an excellent way to decide if you’re mad for sure, or at least mad enough to run the risk of someone seeing it and, even though you don’t name names or say where you work exactly, pulling you into a conference room to talk about your “Internet problem.”  While I’m still mad for sure and the risk of someone seeing this is very low (I defriended my boss on Facebook already, and anyone else who sees fit to stalk-and-tattle can suck my dick because I’m just vague enough to claim free speech, assholes), I’ve decided not to post for now.

Mostly because I had a meeting with my boss that went okay, so perhaps I should save it for the next really bad day.

And Tuesday was a bad day.  It was so bad that after drinking 90% of a bottle of wine and live tweeting Top Gun, I still didn’t go to sleep feeling any better*.  I did wake up drunk at 2am, though, which is a lot better than waking up at 4:30am and realizing I only have one more hour of sleep left.

I have no way of knowing when my next bad day will be, but I’m hoping it’s sometime after New Year’s.  After years of eating shit when it comes to getting time off, somehow I managed to score 7 straight days of vacation at the end of this month.  This is in a department that doesn’t get a Christmas holiday, by the way, and my requests were up against people with kids and extended family.  Historically, those are the people who win holiday vacation battles.  Young(ish) single people like me are expected to trudge into work hungover because their more reproductively-inclined co-workers need to spend time with their families.

So fuck off, breeders!  I get the days off this time!  How does it feel to come to work for a change?  I’ll be thinking of all of you when I spend the last 30 minutes of the 23rd setting up my Out Of Office message.

I thought about taking an actual vacation with my vacation time, but decided against it for a few reasons:

1. Those full-body scanners at the airport are fucking crazy and I refuse to participate.

2. In light of my constant personal space/recent social anxiety issues, receiving a vaginal massage from a TSA agent might cause a little more stress than I can handle.

3. To cope with said stress, I’d spend way too much time and money in an airport bar and possibly end up missing my flight.

4. There’s no way Graham would be able to take off work on such short notice and we’ve still never been on a real vacation together.

5. This is the first Christmas we’ve truly committed to as a couple, meaning that the effort to visit all necessary members of both of our families is already a 3-day ordeal.  My grandmother is mean enough as it is, and I couldn’t stand to hear her complain if. I cancelled this year.

6. My passport expired earlier this year, and there’s no point in going somewhere in the winter if it isn’t warm or out of the country.  Also I think Florida is gross.

* Maybe you don’t need to drink wine and tweet about Top Gun to feel better.  I guess I don’t need to, either, but it was something I could do for (essentially, I already owned the wine) free in the privacy of my own home, which is to say I was wearing my fat pants.  While there must be more glamorous ways to blow off steam, attempting to fix my own goddamn problems is one of the grownup skills I’ve become most proud of mastering.  Actually, it’s never seemed all that difficult to me, which is why people who can’t take care of their own shit make me crazy.

If you’re in my main group of friends: people, we are almost 30.  We have had the time to figure this out.  If you don’t like something, change it.  If you can’t change it, learn to deal with it.  Like an adult, I should add, just in case any of my former friends are reading this and want to know if “deal with it” includes getting shithammered every night for months and causing, in no particular order, property damage, unemployment, illegitimate children, bodily injury, ruined friendships, eviction, questionable sexual relations, poor business decisions, financial despondency, and all around buffoonery that no one in their right mind will tolerate for extended periods of time.

You are also not allowed to respond to any kind of adversity with irrational tears and/or a pouty bitchface followed by staying in your room and slamming doors for a few days.  Christ, man, get a hold of yourself.

Goose will show you the way.

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About erineph

I'm Erin. I have tattoos and more than one cat. I am an office drone, a music writer, and an erstwhile bartender. I am a cook in the bedroom and a whore in the kitchen. Things I enjoy include but are not limited to zombies, burritos, Cthulhu, Kurt Vonnegut, Keith Richards, accordions, perfumery, and wearing fat pants in the privacy of my own home.
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4 Responses to Take Me Home or Lose Me Forever

  1. fiala of fiala and dalton fame says:

    holiday motherfucking kumite

    • erineph says:

      Just before approving your comment, WordPress asked — immediately below “happy motherfucking kumite” — “are you sure you want to do this?” And I thought, “not really, but I don’t really have a choice.”

  2. fiala of fiala and dalton fame says:

    its actually holiday mf’ing kumite?

Comments are closed.