05 October 2001 ~ Fascist apologies, chicken tenders, fantasies about the mailman, Norman, and something like the End of the World...

First, many apologies for sounding like a complete fascist yesterday. Certainly I am not in favor of killing stupid people. After all, what's the difference between me and the morons who come into my store? Not a whole lot, really. Perhaps, just perhaps, I have a higher IQ and a better complexion than most of them, but they still make more money than me. But perhaps those are the only differences, so no, I don't want them to die. I just want them to go away. And to quit puking on my clean floor.

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I was officially sexually molested today. I was cleaning the men's bathroom at work (look, it's a requirement, okay...), and I was JUST about done mopping up a few stray puddles of pee (WHEN are you boys going to learn to either aim or sit???) when a very tall man with black hair and green eyes burst in on the scene... He was maybe 40ish, sort of nasty, looked an awful lot like he was going to wet himself... I said, "Oh, sorry sir... I'm almost done. I'm leaving now. Go on in."

And HE said, "That's okay, sweetheart!" and grabbed my breast!!!

I didn't think fast enough to squirt him in the eyes with the restroom-odor-neutralizer... Oh well. I was going to tell one of my managers, but he was on the front line saying something to the effect of "Well now, that's a WOMAN for you! Can't ever do anything right." I really hate that man. Needless to say, I was not going to confide in him about some jerk grabbing me. I told my female manager later. She said it's not the first time a female employee has been groped in that bathroom. I hope the next time the breast-grabber tries to do his thing, he gets kicked -- VERY HARD -- in the chicken tenders.

Heh! Whee! I like that! Chicken tenders! Hm! First time I've smiled all day!

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I've been having fantasies about my mailman as of late.

Don't laugh. I know you're laughing. I don't mean THOSE kinds of fantasies.

I find myself stuffing cheeseburgers into bags at work and daydreaming about what my mailman is doing. I try to psychically connect with him, to try to see through his eyes, what house he's at and what he's got in his little knapsack... I envision his little blue jacket and his little blue hat... I envision him bringing me letters... Letters from my penpals in exotic countries... Letters with neat stamps on them... Letters with mix-tapes in them... And one special letter from a cute geeky boy in Washington named Corey: an admissions counselor at the Evergreen State College... A letter saying, "Dear Helena... It is my great pleasure to----" or even a letter saying, "Dear Helena... Five more credits and it will be my great pleasure to----" Even if it's the latter, at least with the arrival of that letter, I can give the cute geeky boy a call and say, "hey, cute geeky boy... I got five credits coming up for you in a couple of weeks, I PROMISE!"

You see, my friends, I really don't like living the way I'm living... I'm working at a job I don't like... I'm living in a town I'm liking less and less... I don't get to read much, I don't get to write much, I don't get to see my friends very often, and the highlight of my damned day is getting the mail. I don't really love the class I'm taking at Broome Community College. I'm sad. Or rather, I WOULD be sad if I'd quit drinking so damned much Dr. Pepper. It's like coke for us lightweights who can't handle foreign substances very well...

I'm sad -- a chemically-enhanced version of sad -- and I want a way out.

Of course, there are MANY ways out. I could drop out of the minimum-wage business and get FAFSA to pay my way through BCC for a year, and transfer to Binghamton University. I could get a steady non-minimum-wage job someplace as a paralegal or a secretary or something. Or hell, I could drop out of everything and take a nice long walk..... A VERY long walk... I want to see New Orleans... And for some reason, I want to see South Dakota, just to say I have. Or, I could... well, I could do a lot of things...

But I've focused on this one way out, this one alternative... The mailman, the letter, the Evergreen State College, Washington...

I feel sort of bad about all of this... I want OUT so badly that it's really, really hard for me to think about the things I love here... Like Norman... I feel really bad for Norman... Even though we're not an ooey-gooey romantic couple anymore, I suspect it might hurt him a little bit to see me sort of spaced out all the time and wishing to be someplace else...

Imagine you're living with your no-longer-girlfriend. Imagine you're watching X-files reruns with her, and imagine you're sort of cuddling with her, because what the hell, what reason is there in the world NOT to cuddle? And imagine she's babbling on about how she can't wait to get out of this shithole? Imagine she starts telling you she's been fantasizing about the mailman? And about a cute geeky boy named Corey in an admissions office on the other side of the country? Imagine your no-longer-girlfriend, this person that's spent many a night sleeping next to you, who's loved you and whom you've loved -- and imagine her wanting nothing more than an OUT.

I feel bad for Norman. I want to leave Binghamton. I want to leave dumb jobs and unthrilling classes. I want to leave pee-puddles and barf-puddles and dirty old men. I want to leave the Belmar -- I want to stop playing Pearl Jam on the damned jukebox and go live forty-five minutes away from them. I want to leave Java's -- I want to stop acting like I care about it when I really don't think I do anymore, and go live in a place where you can't walk two feet without having a beautiful person offer you a latté with blackberry syrup in it... But I don't want to leave Norman. I don't want to leave Norman and I don't want to leave my Rivers. The two things about my life right now that I don't ever want to discard... I try not to be so anxious around Norman. I try not to complain about work or school or Binghamton, lest Norman get it into his head that he's just one more thing I don't want to deal with anymore. That's simply not the case.

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Norman's brother called the other night. I smiled at the phone when it rang. It felt like a distant ring. It's not quite that I knew WHO it was, but I did know it was a distant ring. A northwest ring.

Norman's brother said, "So how did you like your trip to Washington?"

I said, "I want to go back."

He said, "Good!"

I said, "...And next time I go, I'm not coming back."

He said, "Good! And bring Norman along with you!"

A nice thought.

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Dreamed of You the other night.

It was something like the End of the World. But not quite.

It wasn't quite death, nor mass destruction, not even quite the real End of the World. Just something sort of like it.

I was sitting in a little purplish coffeeshop. I was drinking tea. And You were there. I said: "This is the End of the World." It wasn't, really, and You smiled at me. And You said, "good luck."

Then we were on a street corner, a quiet little street corner. I was walking one way; You were walking the other way. I knew I'd never see You again. It wasn't quite the End of the World. I was happy. So were You. But it was something like the End of the World.

~Helena*