01 May 2000 ~ Thirty-nine hours a week...

Chad called me earlier -- during X-files, of course -- to brag about his new housemate, Peter.

I'm glad he got what he wanted. He's been hanging out with me for months now telling me how lucky I am to be living with such a "hunk" (his word). He'll call me and have nothing better to say than, "Where are Jeff and Peter tonight?" All he's ever wanted from me is to get closer to Peter, and more recently, Jeff. Well, he finally got what he wanted.

Jeff invited his boyfriend to move in, of course without consulting me. His unemployed boyfriend. I'm going to put my foot down; I HATE living with the two of them. Jeff's boyfriend has been here since Easter weekend and Jeff hasn't had a WORD to say to me. The two of them are constantly in the shower together giggling, so of course, I get luke-warm water ANY time I want a shower. And they're nice and they're my friends, but I DON'T want to come home to sweet little snuggle-bunnies making out on the furniture. It's depressing and it's gross and I wish I meant more to Jeff than just a place to store his boyfriend's things while they enjoy the rapture of each other in the next room. I will NOT live with Jeff's boyfriend here. He can go back to where he came from or he can sleep in the alley, but he is not going to live here. Besides, he's got this WONDERFUL habit of never flushing the toilet. The house reeks of feces whenever I come home from work.

Why can't I just live in a sweet little apartment all by myself and never have to think about anything except what to have for dinner and what to watch on TV?

Why couldn't I have just killed myself when I had the chance and the guts to do it?

I live for work. I don't know what I'm going to do when my co-worker comes back from his two-week vacation and my hours get cut. I LIVE for my job, and I mean that absolutely literally. At work, I can pretend everything's okay. At work, everybody thinks I'm this sweet, perky person, kind of bitchy, more crude than your average chick, but funny and smart and willing to work... Outside of work, I fall apart. At work, I can take teasing. Outside of work, I burst into tears if somebody looks at me out of their car window. At work, I feel something like belonging. I think that the four people I work with WOULD actually give a shit if I jumped off a building. As a matter of fact, I think if I gave them any clue about my building-leaping thoughts, at least two of them would call me up and say, "Look, chick, what's going on?" They're my family now. They have been for a long time. I love them dearly, especially Susan and Matt. I'm glad they don't know anything about my personal life. I'm glad they don't really know ANYTHING about me.

I don't work tomorrow until 5.30. I'm going to sleep for as long as I can, then wake up and watch mindless TV until I have to work. I have too much time on my hands... Maybe I'll get another job. A paper route. Closing at a gas station. Night clerk at the Regency Hotel or something; they're always hiring. Yeah, it's money. It's also a small scrap of sanity I get to prolong.

Lately, my mental state has felt like used toilet paper stuck on the bottom of a grubby brown Doc Marten.

~Helena*

"Whatcha really waaaaawnt..." --DMX, the only quote I could think of... sorry.