Here's a little tidbit I've been keeping to myself: my hair is different. Very different. I am now blonde. If my coworkers are to be believed, the actual color name is something like Jesus You're Blonde. Of course that's not entirely accurate (given that
I work with a horde of fucking mouth-
breathing morons who "can't tell [their] ass[es] from a hole in the ground"). In truth, it is at least three colors. The prevailing shade is something like "buttercup", with tawny lowlights at the crown, and a deeper (but nowhere near dark--I would call it honey?) shade underneath and woven through. It's also a little shorter than it was, though nowhere near "short". Today it's in a glossy little flip, which coordinates well with my white EB stretch poplin blouse and black & white knee-length skirt, which I'm wearing with my black Bass Noelle sandals.I love my new hair.
Today is my seventh anniversary in this nuthouse. (I'm at work.) Seven years, that is, consecutively. It's really closer to eight years and a month, total, since I was here for a bit over a year the first time around. Sheesh. Anyway, seven years in this position: yeah. And so far the response has been a note from my supervisee and a verbal comment from my best friend, today. It was spontaneous and utterly sincere, and I reacted like an ass because I was both surprised (at the comment and the fact that it was made by the person who made it) and inordinately pissy at the lack of brass-band-and-dancing-girls about my big anniversary in the first place. It's a symptom of the disease, though, the general feeling of malaise and sense of maltreatment. I am weary of this. All of it.
Chumbawamba just asked (via my CD player), plaintively, "What ever happened to Mary?" (from the song "Mary Mary"). Makes you wonder, doesn't it? What ever did happen to Mary? Will we ever know?
Time for me to shut up and eat another donut. One donut closer to death.
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