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Home at last, home at last.

Work sucked, and it was entirely my own fault. I was too sad, too distracted, too whatever to be any flavor of effective. But once again, folks at The Co-op reminded me of why I wanted to work there in the first place. Joe offered to let me go home early if I needed to; Shannon made sure they got me out the door in a timely fashion so I could "get my drink on." And Fuzzy Wobbly ... man, I have never been so glad to see his car in the parking lot as I was when I arrived today. He saw my face when I came in the door and asked if "vegan boy" was the cause of my depression. He waited for me til I got my break (and read my LiveJournal during the downtime), then gave me a cigarette and a hug, and shared with me his own recent tale of woe (a very different flavor of woe, but still). Nothing is healing this ache, but it's always a wonderful thing to know that you have support.

And speaking of support, Mothermoonbeam was probably the greatest of all ... seeking me out at the end of my shift, talking to me about her own issues with AFRICArdo ... a good talk about gender roles and relationships and being butch and being protected -- and a talk that I'm not really doing justice to in this description. The upshot is that she said that this was the decade for this kind of bullshit (crap! it's only half over!), and that she has a lot of free time now and I need to call her and hang out. I will, and soon.

And then somewhere in all of this mess I climbed into my car, lit a cigarette, and popped in the tape that I made for Daryk when we were breaking up (yet another case of "can we break up if we were never officially together?"). It's titled "You Fickle Shit," and that should give you a sense of just how angry this tape is. It begins with Uma Thurman, screaming at Fred Ward from the movie Henry & June: "You're not a man - you're a child! You use women, you used me, you fucker! You FUCKER!" and just goes downhill from there.

Which, as I told ratphooey, is where I appear to be right now: In Elizabeth Kubler-Ross' stages of grieving, I seem to have landed pretty squarely in "anger." No, he wasn't a jerk (obligatory disclaimer), but all day long I've been stifling the urge to just smash things. Grab that big plastic divider from my checkout counter and just start wailing on something. "Should I throw things at the neighbors? Expose myself to strangers? Kill myself, or you?"

If ratphooey is right and I am making excellent progress, then tomorrow should be on into bargaining, with depression to follow. Mmmm ... depression. Oh, and speaking of depression, guess how stupid I am? Yes, that's right: I called H.W.S.R.N. And dig what a monumental asshole he is: I called, and his mother answered, and said he was home. I can hear her in the background, telling him the phone is for him, and that the person on the line (me) asked for "H.W.S.R.N." (note: obviously, I did not say "H.W.S.R.N."; I used his real name). Then she returns and says he's not feeling well, and can he call me back. Sure, motherfucker, you do that. I'll just be sitting here, holding my breath. You fucker.

Which, yea, kind of brings me back to anger ... anger not just at him, but at Hipster -- hell, at Daryk ... Daryk, who, if nothing else, should have taught me the lesson that getting involved with someone when you know from the get go that you both want very different things is a surefire way to end up brokenhearted and hooked on drugs ... and angry at myself, for time and again choosing these men who are emotionally unavailable, are addicted to whatever, are on one-man missions of self-destruction. Yes, yes, familiar patterns, my mother is a caregiver and my father is a psycho, blah blah blah. But why, WHY, do I constantly let people treat me so goddamn motherfucking badly?

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