13,397 Days Alive
A coworker is pissed off at me because, long story short, I asked for help at work when I was falling apart and it fell on her.
She was making comments all day today about wanting to beat someone’s ass for making her kid sad when she was late to get him. I get her frustration, but she’s literally next to me. One cubicle divider away. And she’s… well, incapable of silence, subtlety, or some modicum of self-awareness when she talks. Her volume is just stuck on ten. And she’s bitching to everyone who comes by her desk how horrible and such I am and how it’s not fair and on and on.
Her issues are not my fault. Her problems are not my fault. She could have said no. Or given it back the assignment back to me when I came back. But somehow, because she left work fifteen minutes late, she was forty-five minutes late picking up her kids.
I know how stressful being a parent is. What I don’t get is why her husband couldn’t pick up the kids? Or why fifteen minutes turned into forty five?
I saw Cleo this evening. They came over to my side of the Bridge for a meal, some cuddles, and some hang out time. It was nice.
Whatever. I’m packing for my brief trip over the weekend. Family stuff.
Writing-wise, I’m still working on Midnight Calls. I hope to get more work done on it this weekend. Maybe break 25,000 words?
Mentally, being bad-mouthed all day left me with a sour stomach. But tomorrow is a new day.
I’m going to run through the shower and then head to bed.
Take your meds, folks.
Postmark Wonderland 