I'm just so tired. Since getting back from Quebec, I've been feeling like things are not quite meshing. Looking forward to the weekend - maybe 2 days of sleep and doing S.F.A. will fix what ails me.
If that doesn't work, there's always alcohol.
Speaking of my epic...here's the opening thus far:
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“Isabelle, it’s been two weeks. Stop being so self indulgent and get out of bed, get dressed, come to work.”
The voice on the phone was that of my boss, Fiona. She is, without a doubt, the most self-centered and socially inept individual on the planet. I’d worked for her as Administrative Assistant for six years, during which I’d grown to know her just a tad too well. She was one of those women everyone liked at first; she could charm the birds from the trees as my dad used to say. She had enough weird quirks that drove people nuts after a while, like she would only buy cars that had colours named for alcohol: champagne, burgundy, cognac. She didn’t see anything wrong with wearing her full length black mink coat, and thought that the environmentalists were people with no other talents than getting attention. But the job was fairly easy and staying one step ahead of her wasn’t as hard as one would think. The pay was good, the benefits were better. It was normally enough of a carrot for me to pretend I liked her.
At this moment however, I loathed her immensely. “Fuck off Fiona. I’m allowed.” I then hung up on her.
I waited for her to call me back. I knew there was no way she’d let this go, and I wasn’t disappointed. I picked up the phone on the first ring and said “Fiona. Go. Away.”
“Isabelle, work will help you get over this.” Ah. I see she’s trying the sensitive and reasonable approach. Too bad I knew her better, and was not falling for it.
“Fiona, how about you cut the shit and tell me what you want slash need?”
“Well, first of all I’d like you to stop cursing. It’s not very professional.”
“Yeah. Whatever.” I didn’t feel very professional. I hadn’t left my bed for most of those two weeks, and I looked it. I didn’t care even slightly.
“Isabelle! When are you coming back to work? I can’t find anything, and we’re about to lose a big contract because we can’t find the paperwork.” Ah, the point emerges.
“I don’t give a shit about the contract, the paperwork or you.” I have never said anything truer in my life.
There was a long silence. “Do you want a job to come back to?” Her voice had gotten that cold menacing tone I’ve heard her use on suppliers who missed her impossible deadlines.
“Are you threatening me Fiona? Perhaps I need to place a call to Human Resources.” Wow. This conversation was disintegrating fast. I still didn’t care.
She started to speak, but I was suddenly hit by what my friend calls a case of the awfukkits. “You know what, Fiona? I am done with this. The paperwork was filed correctly the last day I was there. If you can’t find it, it’s because you’ve lost it, no one else. And I am not dragging myself down there in this state just to cover your ass yet again.” The awfukkits ramped up a notch, and I heard myself saying “Actually, I don’t think I want to drag myself down there to cover your ass again. Ever. I quit.”
I could hear her voice start to screech as I gently put the receiver back on the cradle. I unplugged the phone and lay back down to resume my busy day of staring at the ceiling.
Two weeks ago I cared about things. I loved a man, cared about my friends and family, and worried about my job. My life was full of the moments and emotions that give a life it’s colour.
Now I don’t even care enough to wash my hair.
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