Work's been a cavalcade of laughs. As per first-job-cliche bingo.
Paper cut from an envelope that's been idling on my desk for a month? Check.
"Oh hey Reza, about that drawing we've been telling you to rush and pull overtime to finish, well, the client kind of backpedaled on us so you can just drop it for now, mmkay? Oh and here's another fire to put out. We need this layout detailed and prettied up by this afternoon. There's another client presentation tomorrow."
Brb, off to get more brake fluid, or whatever it is that gets percolated as coffee around here. And to smash my head into a wall a couple of times. Can't be worse than self medicating with tylenol.
Apprehensive about meeting Maya tonight. Almost want to pull overtime today so I don't have to see her at that dingy little cafe down on dundas. It's not the cafe, honestly. Not even her, despite how charmingly sociopathic she can be sometimes. It's that fucking book I asked her to find.
I'm writing this down because honestly, I can't talk this shit out with anyone. I don't dare. Hard enough to be a happy seeming sock puppet for the benefit of all your acquaintances. Hard enough to keep that act up without letting the crazy shine through.
And I have to start keeping a record, out where I know it won't be tampered with. Can't exactly words put to paper. Can't trust that they'll remain. Can't trust that they'll be read.
Have to do this consistently. I'm not sure about the foundations of my memory palace anymore. The corridors run dark, echoes resound that I can't explain. This place, this will have to be my memory palace, for now.
...How fucking prescient of you, Maya. Of course you'd text me right now.
Screw it, I'll go see her and get that fucking book. Can probably get most of this layout done before five. And then it's off to see her majesty of snark and cheerfully sadistic asides. Maybe if I'm good and she's feeling generous, we'll even get to take a walkaround of the graffiti corridors by queens west. In -15C windchill.
Joy. Bliss. Etc.