Pierced

Showering in a shower that has a Delta brand washer-less faucet means the difference between Eskimo cold and jalapeno hot is half the width of a pubic hair. Then factor in that the water pressure in this hundred-year-old building goes up and down every time anyone flushes a toilet or washes a dish, and it means a morning shower can be a rude awakening.

That’s why I usually shower in the middle of the night, when chances are I’m the only person awake in the building. Sadly, I overslept and showered with everyone else at 6:30 this morning. Should've skipped it entirely.

♦ ♦ ♦

At work, most of the morning was spent training a woman from another department how to do certain clerical work — the work I spend maybe half my day doing. Effective next week, her department will be doing that work themselves. 

What I’ll be doing remains a secret. Most likely getting laid off, and I’ve just trained my replacement. Big effin’ deal. The job sucks, the company sucks, and even the chairs are uncomfortable. I’ll be a temp again when they let me go, and if I can get away with it I’ll pee in the elevator on my way out.

♦ ♦ ♦

Running an errand during lunch break today, I spotted a familiar face on the sidewalk. He’s a guy I once worked with, and we once in a while talked about old movies — not quite a friend, but not a stranger, and an OK dude.

I almost shouted "Hi!" to him, but since last I saw the guy, he’s gotten his face pierced above the eyebrow, and on the nose, and on his upper lip, and that’s just on the half of his head I could see from across the street.

It’s his face. He can do whatever he wants with it. It’s kinda off-putting, though. Maybe that’s the intent? Whatever, but since I didn’t want to talk about this guy’s face face-to-face, I let him and the moment slip away.

♦ ♦ ♦

Yet another phone call at work from Maggie. She said she won’t visit me in San Francisco again. OK. She misses me. OK. She wants me to fly up to Cowland — eastern Washington, where she lives — and visit her there. Nope. Can’t afford to fly, and if I could, Cowland isn’t where I’d go.

She remains mercurial, yelling at me and then saying sweet things in her next breath. She wants me to say that I miss her, so I said it, and I do miss her. I missed her while she was here, too — she was strange, violent, and distant. Today, she all but said our romance is over. OK. I know that — and she called me, I didn’t call her. I said that. She didn’t answer.

She asked for the latest issue of my zine, but the answer to that is no, too. The conversation ended the same way it started, with me asking her why she called.

From Pathetic Life #3
Monday, August 29, 1994

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

 

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