I could spend a billion letters bitching about my new boss, but just thinking about writing all that jazz is making me mad. Instead, I’ll just sum it up in an anecdote from yesterday.

We had arranged to meet yesterday for an overdue conversation. She was coming from uptown and called to let me know that she was hopping on an express train to meet me, a train ride that couldn’t take more than 20 minutes. 90 minutes later, she called to let me know she was 3 blocks away. Mind you, I’d been waiting at the prearranged spot all this while.

When she finally showed up at the spot, an hour later, she was carrying a Coach shopping bag, armed with a sloppy tale about the trains not running correctly, a train with no current service advisories, according to the website.

Not two minutes ago, I get a rambling, nonsensical email with a quick jab at the end that she thinks I’m disrespecting her because I allegedly turn in my TPS reports late. Not true - if she actually sat in one fucking place and worked for, oh, a single whole day out of the week, she’d see that I send everything requested to her, on time, many times more than once. Disrespecting her? OH REALLY? What do you call that childish, passive aggressive stunt? And if she calls me a “little hipster girl” one more time, I’ll give her disrespect. Right at her face.

Very briefly, I met colleagues at a venue just off the West 4th St stop. Afterwards, I picked over the embellished tees and skinny jeans, leaving Urban Outfitters SOOOOOOOOOOOO dehydrated! I rolled up to the kiosk just outside the West 4th St station entrance, you know the one….where are the basketball courts are and the McDonald’s is, the one you’d go into and order a quarter pounder with cheese if you weren’t so fucking scared of being discovered by, I don’t know, ANYONE?

ANYWAY, I roll up to the kiosk, and am all, WTF? No Seltzer? What a shit shot. I’m so chewing-on-sand thirsty, I say, give me a Power C Vitamin Water. Whateverthefuck. This little pint-sized piece of shit is ALL UP IN MY JUNK. Like, dumb-retardedly so. He goes past the ostensible plugged in cooler to the ostensibly NOT plugged in cooler and pulls out this bottle that’s the temperature of my asshole. I reach out to grab it and I’m all, uh, go fuck your sons, no. What is this?

Mother fuck STROKES MY HAND. “Everything is so good? Everything is so nice?” Uh, jump up off me, little man. Touch me one more Goddamned time, and you miss that hand. He pulls out ANOTHER bottle of piss-warm vitamin water. Clearly….with the death wish, mother fucker is touching me AGAIN! I’ve known people for 18 months OR MORE who have never felt the glory of my retardedly soft skin, and here is this dumb fuck of a kiosk manager touching me…nay. STROKING ME twice inside of 10 minutes.

I’m SO PISSED at myself for not lunging at that mother fucking and ripping out his carotid artery and letting the sweet bliss of his life force rain out all over us and my vitamin water. It’s these moments that I realize what an under-acheiveing POS I’ve become, just like my Social Science teacher, Mrs. Hayes, predicted so many, many years ago (her own daughter ended up as a prosecuted whore with an illegitimate baby, and yet, I was the “as risk” youth. Too bad I HAD A FUCKING BRAIN.)

Anyway, just venting. It’s a little all over the place. But more a personal reminder to say, “I will slice off your fucking dick if you violate my person EVER.” Because I’m worth it.

Shit for brains.

I just found out that my ex detailed the worst parts of our relationship, including the embarrassing events of our break up, to our mutual friend. Well, my friend, his colleague. He never liked my ex.

I had sent white tulips, with a note of apology, a hope for friendship later on down the line. Around the same time, he’s trashing me over dinner and drinks, just another night out, another evisceration of someone’s reputation.

Christ. When will I ever learn?

Was it wrong of my friend to have shared that with me? I just wish this wasn’t part of my consciousness anymore.