ON PLAYING THE VICTIM — Bishhhhhhes ;0)

Reflection from July 25th, 2012 @ Age 31


It has just occurred to me—as I was just driving home listening to Shakira singing “She Wolf” actually, that there is a part of me that is on lockdown.  I don’t know much about it, but it’s the part that sings and dances and likes to have orgasms.  I stopped singing around others when Jody Trent told me not to sing songs if I didn’t have all the words memorized right—around age 7.  I stopped singing almost entirely around age 14, when my mom and Elaine were sitting in the kitchen having tea at the house I grew up in—laughing when I came downstairs from the shower, during which time they had heard me singing.  In that case, I’m pretty sure they just thought it was nice that I was so joyful as to be singing so loudly in the shower—but in any case, it did me in.  I guess it didn’t take much.

And then, otherwise, I can’t remember last time I’ve actually enjoyed dancing—except that one brief moment in front of the mirror, in my bedroom at my parents’ house at Seven Lakes Place after law school.  Except for that, I can’t even think of the last time I had fun dancing.  College, I suppose it must have been—and that would only have been when I was trashed, so it’s questionable whether that really counts.  I guess I sang a little then too, but not like I used to.  And orgasms, well, never a goddamned one.  And so I’m on lockdown I tell you—whatever it is, it has to do with those three parts.

On another note, not much going on at work surprisingly.  I still have my job—to my dismal and also I suppose somewhat relief, in a way.  When I told Paul “no” on Monday, and he put all the goddamned pressure on me the way he did to say “yes”—he left it, saying I could take the evening to think it over.  Then, yesterday, Tuesday—he popped his head into the doorway of my office in the morning before his hearing downtown at Court and said, “So what did you decide?”  And, I told him, “I just don’t feel comfortable doing that.”  And that was that.  He just left—was in my office a few times in the afternoon for files, but had meetings and didn’t say one word to me the entire day except that one question in the morning.

And then, today, he was out all day at a seminar—but he did call around, hmm…

Probably, it was about 11am maybe?  Anyways, he told Judy he wanted to speak with me—so I got on the phone and said “hi” and he said, “I want so and so file on my desk ready for closing tomorrow morning, and I want the XYZ accounting done as well.”  And, I said “okay” and we hung up.  And that’s it!  Ohh wait…

One thing more…

And then, he had his son (i.e. actually, his step-son with whom he smokes pot—as per Paul’s mouth exactly, during our afternoon office conference about two weeks ago when I asked how Sean was in fact, doing) come into the office for not really any reason whatsoever this afternoon around 4:35pm.  I think it was to check up and see if I was still there, which I was—working on the stupid fucking accounting Paul wanted done.  Seems, perhaps, like I might be being slightly paranoid—but I swear to you, when I stopped and said “hi” to this creepo kid the other day leaving the office, this fucking weirdo just looked at me and smirked.  I said, “You’re Sean right?  Hi, I’m Marissa, I’ve worked for Paul for about five years now.  It’s nice to finally get a chance to get to meet you,” and this fucking kid looked straight at (through me—if you can believe it), and smirked—and, I’m not sure he even said one goddamned word in response.

It was very fucking bizarre—I think he was just waiting for me to walk past him so he could get a good luck at the back of my pencil skirt, if you know what I mean.  What a creep.  Talk about Radiohead

This kid is a fucking CREEP.

Anyways, so that’s where it all stands at present.  Well, there, and a few other things too.  Such as, well no…

I don’t feel like getting into it right now.  Do you know I had a dream about Mister DJM Sunday night all the way right up until Monday morning before this all happened!?!  I did!  And I was busy, busy, busy writing it all down at work in the morning first thing—I can’t remember if Paul walked in and saw me writing in my journal (the La Boheme one) or not.  I don’t think so on that occasion, but I’m pretty damn sure he walked into my closed door office one day and saw me writing on Google Docs regarding “On Being Bipolar” with the big ol’ title sticking out in bold on white—so easy to see.  Oof!  Ahh well, if I’m canned—then I’m canned; if I’m not—then I at least have good motivation now to get my fat (i.e. cute little albeit slightly saggy) ass up off the couch and go find me a new job!

Anyways, I suppose this is all really neither here nor there, now isn’t it?