Oh, the tingling nerve of it. The empty screen practically taunting me. "C'mon EJ!" it whispers. "No one will know! Vent! Let it all out! Your boss would never find it! No one else in your office would care! You go ahead and spew all the crap stored up inside you."
Oh Blogger, you foul temptress.
I will not blog about work. I will not blog about work. I will not blog about work. I will not blog about work. I will not blog about work.
Instead, I will say that standing in the Teet at 10:30 last night, after work, class and exhaling for the first time since I hit my snooze button that morning, I contemplated which pint of Ben and Jerry's would be my downfall. Two years, kids. That's how long it's been since I've induldged in that particular sin. More specifically, not since the week my thesis was due. There have been other ice creams, surely, but none with the caloric or emotional significance that comes with a pint of B&J.
It was a tough call between Fossil Fuel and Dublin Mudslide, but in the end I went with the former. The idea of something fueling was quite appealing, plus I was afraid that anything with a drop of alcohol would set me off on a whole other kind of binge.
I ate three-quarters of the pint curled up on my couch with Sadie kneading my stomach as if to say "Oooh goodie, more to play with," wondering when, exactly, it starts to get easier. Just when the things we work for finally fall into place after years of towing the line and working hard and playing by the rules.
My Dad said last night when I called for advice "At least you have the comfort of knowing you're doing everything right." That's lovely, but I'd prefer not to need that comfort at all.