Angry

Angry

My job. It angered me today. Angered me so much that I wept in barely private solitude in a restroom stall. Angered me not because the work is too difficult or because I was attacked. No. Rather, it angered me today because of the overwhelming fright of stale adulthood is closing in on me.

As an office admin I spend a lot of time alone. Most of the interaction I encounter throughout the day consists of answering phones very politely, following orders from higher-up office mates very submissively, and being at the front desk very quietly. Other than that, I’d might as well not exist.

I want to sing. I want to read. I want to write. I want to laugh. I want to complain. I want to feel.

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None of that is welcomed in my job description. I was kidding myself when I boasted about what a great employee I am during the job interview. “Why do you want this job,” I was asked. “I’d love to have a chance at this opportunity so I can display my fortitude and adoration for assisting others,” I responded confidently. <– What the fuck was I thinking? I wanted the job because I’m tired of being broke and dealing with annoying brunch-goers as a Hostess at a restaurant. That’s why I wanted the job.

Now that I’ve got it, I can’t help but feel so deeply unsatisfied, unsatiated, unhappy. All this and loads of other mumbojumbo weighed down on me and I became angry. So angry that I had to cry.

Fergie was wrong when she sang big girls don’t cry. Just wrong!

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