Procrastinet

I Write Because If I Don't... Part I

filed under: Procrastinet Guests

A series of Notes from the Third Shift - purgatorial musings from late night desk worker Agilda Peas.

Part I: This is What the Germans Like to Refer To as Torture

Wednesday October 6th 3:28AM

I have to write because if I don’t write to occupy my mind I will fall asleep and if I fall asleep then I will wake up with my head on my desk at 8 in the morning and my boss will be standing over me wondering what the fuck I’m doing asleep on my desk. I’m trying to not look at the clock. I’m going to see how long I can go not looking at the clock. Like running. Like when I run and I try not to look at the clock on the treadmill. What happens is that I get lost a little so that when I finally do happen upon the clock I am surprised by how much time has actually passed.

If I don’t write, I will eat. And then I will be one of those people who eat when they’re bored or when times get tough and I can’t be that person. There are people in this office who eat non-stop over the course of a twelve-hour shift. There’s the obese Super-Jew licking the lid of her yogurt container, and the obese Nice-Guy unwrapping a candy bar and there’s the skinny Haiitian man who always has the mad snacks. Like tonight, he had a box of cookies on his desk, and a pack of gum and a bag of pistachios. The obese woman also always has a bottle of diet Pepsi. Not a bottle, sorry. Not just like a small bottle but rather a two-liter plastic monstrosity and I always think, “Who does that? Who can just sit around and drink two fucking liters of Pepsi over the course of a twelve hour shift?” How the fuck do you spell Haitian anyway? Oh. That’s how. But why wouldn’t…oh fuck it.

Everyone is coming in now complaining that it’s getting cold outside. I don’t see why they complain. My body really wants to look at that damned clock right now. No Body, Bad Body. You are not a clock-watcher, or a bored eater. You are just a worker.

What the fuck is it about me and clocks? Can God let there be a story now please?

Once, there was a little girl who lived in a plaster box in a big city. She had many animals who brought her things on a daily basis. Bones and shells and food and bumble-bee wings and other assorted goodies. The girl had no parents. Not like they were dead or anything. Rather she just had no parents. She hadn’t been born, she had been hatched maybe. Maybe she had just appeared one time in this plaster box with no explanation. I don’t fucking know.

There was a man, a long time ago. He lived in a tract-house with his wife who was not real. She was an imaginary wife but other people could see her. She was visible to other people but really she didn’t exist anywhere except for in her husband’s mind. He had been so desperate to marry, so desperate to have intercourse with someone he might call his own, that he began fantasizing about meeting the perfect girl. And one day, she appeared on his doorstep. But really he was just dreaming. But he had fantasized so much and he had wished so hard and for such a long time, that when she showed up, she had a physical form. The man greeted his wife with an apron. Ha ha.

Jim and Delilah were in the back seat of his Chevy Malibu on a hot summer night. No dirty, bad dirty. No porn for at least another half an hour.

8 minutes. I wrote all of that in 8 minutes. Doesn’t seem fair does it? No. It doesn’t. And this fucking tray is not anatomically correct. I don’t care what the cute boy from Humanscale said. Sorry. Not the right word. Ergonomically correct. And I can’t type right. And whose fault is that, huh? People keep coming over here and asking me to do shit for them and really I just can’t take it anymore. But what I really can’t take is trying to figure out more stories. No more stories. My head is full of fucking stories all the time.

What else can’t I stand? I can’t stand being unloved.

I’m sick of Loretta flirting with infidelity but not actually doing anything about it. John’s right. All she’s asking for is Todd to step in and show that he still gives a shit. She wants to feel wanted. I’m a liar. I don’t know anyone named Loretta, John or Todd. Actually, that’s a lie. I know several Johns but I wasn’t referring to any of them here. I’m making things up again. Oh and I also wasn’t talking about guys who see prostitutes. I don’t know any guys who see prostitutes. My male friends don’t have to pay for it.

What I REALLY want is to go back to Paris. It’s like a disease. It’s like an ache in my body so deep I want to hurt myself when I feel it. Whatever. I want to be back on those streets, by myself. Alone, just walking. The whole day and then coming home with a baguette and some tomatoes and cheese and sausage and wine. Wine wine wine. Would I get fat in Paris? Am I not cool enough? I kind of feel like I’m not cool enough for Paris. Poetry break.

a bored room in a board room
white walls washed with beige blood in a mirage of self-sanctity
save yourself, make your dough, make bread
butter bread with false hope.
live on the beach like a whale;
dead and bloodied and eaten upon by birds and humans looking for answers.
this is too too deep of a cut for such a shallow listening 7 minutes
Seven minutes and my HAND HURTS SO MUCH AND IT’S NOT EVEN 4:30.

Tandoori was a bitter bitch. People used to tell her that she was hard hearted. Unable to love, unable to care about anything other than herself. This made her cry at night. “If only they knew the real me.” Nobody ever knew the real Tandoori. The Tandoori who talked to herself, the Tandoori who was a desperate romantic, the Tandoori who felt the pain of others, was kind to animals, was always trying to better herself, was terribly afraid of things. The Tandoori who just wanted someone around who made her feel safe. The Tandoori who became fixated on people she hardly even knew because they possessed potential. Ick. Potential. Tandoori thought she was in love with Alex Mac. Is this her diary? Can this be her diary tonight? Fuck me, is this how my thoughts sit in my head? Is this like emotional detox? Is this like a brain cleanse? Like Master Cleanser for the mind?

Ohfucl. this isn’t woking right now, my mnd is goping a little bit. I’m jystn goung ti let my fingers fall where there fall and ifteh fall in the right place then so be it if they don’t’ fuck me. what am ai doing with my life? huh?

I should learn to speack abotuher language.

YES YESYES, it’s almost 4:30. This is what the Germans like to refer to as torture. Oh fucking hell, that’s just great. Don’t come over here. Don’t come over here. No. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. No. Fat. Shit.

Posted by rjt at November 5, 2004 11:40 AM