On the other hand
Cheap laughs about erections not withstanding (see Pool Update No.2) this has been one seriously shitty day.
On 7 July a silence was observed in memory of those who died a year earlier in the London bombings. As an aside I don't recall silences being observed in memory of those died a year earlier through one or other IRA atrocity. I digress.
That evening a program was broadcast and I felt my eyes watering. I don't deal well with human suffering. I cried my eyes out on the tube train (of all places) the morning after the massacre of the children at Dunblane. I sat with the Times on my lap, the class photograph looking up at me, all those innocent children dead. I couldn't read the paper, I couldn't see through the tears.
I'm a sucker for stuff like that, and I cried when the cats died. I cried because of what CT survived only to die the way he did and I cried when Poddie died simply because I loved him to bits and I couldn't cope any other way with his slipping away in such a dignified fashion (and I couldn't cope with his determination to do it his way, alone). I was crying for me when Poddie went, and I know it.
The last time I cried because of a situation I was in or because of something someone said or did to me was the day back in August 2002 when I realised that the Fat Bastard had helped himself to £500 of my cash to fund a trip to visit his Senior-VP-of-a-Global-Services-Company bit on the side. I cried with Rage.
I cried and then I got over it.
And nobody's made me cry until today. The boss is a walking hairdo with the listening skills of a pebble but she still got to me. She got to me with a finely calculated piece of theatre orchestrated with deliberate intent and that objective was my humiliation.
Bitch.
Sorry, but that's it. I'm now going to drink and go in to work tomorrow with a hangover.
On 7 July a silence was observed in memory of those who died a year earlier in the London bombings. As an aside I don't recall silences being observed in memory of those died a year earlier through one or other IRA atrocity. I digress.
That evening a program was broadcast and I felt my eyes watering. I don't deal well with human suffering. I cried my eyes out on the tube train (of all places) the morning after the massacre of the children at Dunblane. I sat with the Times on my lap, the class photograph looking up at me, all those innocent children dead. I couldn't read the paper, I couldn't see through the tears.
I'm a sucker for stuff like that, and I cried when the cats died. I cried because of what CT survived only to die the way he did and I cried when Poddie died simply because I loved him to bits and I couldn't cope any other way with his slipping away in such a dignified fashion (and I couldn't cope with his determination to do it his way, alone). I was crying for me when Poddie went, and I know it.
The last time I cried because of a situation I was in or because of something someone said or did to me was the day back in August 2002 when I realised that the Fat Bastard had helped himself to £500 of my cash to fund a trip to visit his Senior-VP-of-a-Global-Services-Company bit on the side. I cried with Rage.
I cried and then I got over it.
And nobody's made me cry until today. The boss is a walking hairdo with the listening skills of a pebble but she still got to me. She got to me with a finely calculated piece of theatre orchestrated with deliberate intent and that objective was my humiliation.
Bitch.
Sorry, but that's it. I'm now going to drink and go in to work tomorrow with a hangover.
posted by Enyo @ 10:28 pm
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