And THEN when I got to work our customer service person called in sick so I had to do the morning shelving, redo the stepladders AGAIN, return three carts of due out holiday books, back up the customer service desk, handsell, answer phones like mad and cover the customer service desk from 12:45 to 3:00 pm, leaving the entire kids section unmanned, which is something the district manager AND the regional manager have repeatedly told me I should never do.
And did I mention I didn't eat dinner last night, didn't eat breakfast this morning, and barely ate lunch today?
But here I am listening to depressing Eels and Elton John songs and staring at Craig Ferguson's smug british face on late night teevee and struggling to stay awake. WHY? is what somebody would ask me if anybody actually ever POSTED or even READ this damn blog. Well, I'll tell you, fictitious reader.
It's because my wife is out drinking at the newest hipster dirt bar with her "friends" Nikara and Sheda, two heavy-partying and heavy-flirtatious young black girls who she used to go to school with. She said she'd only be a while. She's be back soon, she said. Well, she left at 9:45 and now it's exactly 12:51 as I type this sentence. As tired as I am from a day of busting my ass, doing a manager's job for a measly $11.25 an hour, I know there's no way I'm going to bed until I know Natasha's okay and safe and sound and back home where she belongs.
I know that this stupid ass post will say that it was written on Thursday, January 25th, 2007 but until I go to sleep, until my head hits the pillow and I knock the fuck out, it's still wednesday. Until I know Natasha's safe, it's still a very long and tiring and depressing ass fucking wednesday.
I wish I had friends, someone that I could call and talk with right now. I need somebody to talk with. I need friends badly. I don't really have friends per se. I have acquaintances, work friends, people I "know" in finger quotes. I "suppose" there are a few people I could call right now that I could talk to but none of them would ever call ME to see how I was or call ME to see if I wanted to hang out or even CALL ME, period. Instead I find myself posting again on this blog which, in lieu of a real friend has sort of become my INTERIM friend which somehow manages to seem even more pathetic on this screen as it did when I thought it up in my head.
God I get so damn depressed sometimes. Right now I'm listening to Ben Folds sing the Beatles' "Golden Slumbers" and I feel like at any second I could cry for a million years and nobody would care. Or maybe that's just the tall boy of piss-tasting Tecate talking. Either way, my "Mellow Music" playlist on my iPod has never slapped my testicles as successfully as it's slapping them right now.
I'm so tired, so very fucking tired.
I feel like a living, breathing brown-skinned Townes Van Zandt song.
I'm tired and hungry and lonely and depressed and above all else I have no idea whatsoever what my wife's doing right now.
And what's even worse is that I know that no matter how late I stay up tonight, no matter how much I worry and fret and maybe even cry, I KNOW beyond a shadow of a doubt that I'll have to wake up tomorrow at 6am in the fucking morning and take care of the kids and get Emerald to school and take care of Isabela.
[insert humorously self-deprecating ending here; author's too tired]