Well, here we are again, diary.
Thanks, I’m great, you?
No, I haven’t taken my sleeping pills, and I won’t be taking my sleeping pills. The last time I took them, I tripped balls for three days. During the day. At work. Everyone thought I was possessed, or just that I’d finally tried going to the gym and had broken myself.
I’ve been very good, actually, I’ve only checked to see if he’s messaged me twice. Ok three times, but one of those I was brushing my teeth, so it doesn’t count cuz I was multitasking.
Maybe I should check again.
No, he definitely hasn’t, but Dad did. He keeps forgetting we’re in different time zones.
At least it was earlier than the last time. 3am. And I’d actually fallen asleep that night.
But you already know that.
I tried, but honestly, that guy next door just keep playing his fucking piano--
I do actually like the piano. Just not right now.
You’re going to laugh at me, but I’ve got some banana muffins in the oven. I was up long enough to feel hungry. Maybe that’s why I haven’t been falling asleep?
There’s way too much butter on this and he still hasn’t messaged me.
Rufus just pooped on my carpet.
I DON’T EVEN LIKE THIS DOG. If Margie had taken him with her when she moved like she said she was going to--
Oh god, now the dog is just staring at me. Like ‘c’mon slave, you know you don’t have anything else to do’.
I feel violated. I’ve washed my hands twenty seven times and the carpet is doused in anti-bacterial degreaser, cuz that was all I could find. I don’t even know where Rufus is, honestly, he could be raiding the fridge right now and I’d be fine with it, I just
WANT TO SLEEP.
It also stank so now my bedroom is under a heavy fog of lilac febreeze.
Can you die of inhalation from lilac febreeze? Can you get high from it?
He still hasn’t messaged me. Maybe I didn’t get the job. Maybe Ruth did. She is very good at PowerPoint--
Ugh. I hate lilac.
Partial success! I think between the degreaser and the febreeze I just passed out, but that totally counts as sleeping because I had a dream. I mean, I could have been tripping, but it had to be a dream.
I was in the supermarket and all the potatoes were gone. Like, they were sold out. Potatoes and dental floss. And there was a clown at the check-out, and I didn’t have my wallet, so he honked my nose and told me to leave.
Maybe I should sleep on the couch.
Ok, I know logically that my boss isn’t going to message me at 2am, why can’t I fall asleep?
Dad texted again. I think he meant to send a selfie but it’s just a picture of a blurry hand and one of his feet. He’s wearing socks with sandals again, which, you know, YOLO, but he’s only 60.
I’ve eaten another muffin and I have no regrets.
Maybe I don’t even want to hear from my boss. Maybe I don’t even want this promotion. Maybe I’m scared of it.
Why would I be scared of it?
Well, dinklebrain, you’d have to move. Again. And you’d have to meet new people in a different city, all over again. That’s the job.
I never liked it here anyway.
You’d also have a lot more to do. Responsibilities are stress. And that cute guy, what’s his name--
Don’t pretend you don’t know, Diary. Trying to index the amount of times I’ve written about him would take up your whole back page.
Marco. You’d have to say goodbye to Marco, and he’d find out how lame you are.
I’m not lame. I just have too much febreeze in my head to think clearly right now.
You know you have a huge case of the imposter-syndromes, don’t you?
I’m going to bed.
I have made a piñata out of toilet paper, cue-tips, and old Halloween candy.
I have now filled the piñata with the rest of the muffins and hung it back up on the ceiling fan.
My bed is now filled with shredded banana muffins. This was a terrible idea.
This candy is still pretty good.
I don’t think I have imposter syndrome. I think I’m just not as good at my job as other people think. And one day they’ll find out, and fire me.
Or Marco will find out, and then I’ll be alone forever, and then I’ll die.
I’m not dramatic, either.
Fuck you, diary.
Oh my god, I actually slept a little while, and I’m now positive that that clown dream earlier was definitely some weird, drug-induced hallucination. Real sleep was so good, like molten chocolate, like ice cream sundaes, like hot corn bread with butter--
Wait, why did I wake up?
Oh God no.
He messaged me.
Why is my boss up so late?! Or early?! And he woke me up!
Oh my god.
I didn’t get the job.
I have made a couch fort downstairs, and I honestly think Rufus must be burrowing through the walls cuz that dog is not here. I am sitting in said couch fort with a bowl of ice cream, and I am determined to fall asleep. And I’m not crying, I’m perfectly fine.
Dad texted again. I think he butt-dialed, though, because it’s just a lopsided picture of the TV. He stayed up watching Nailed It! again. I suppose there are worse things.
You know what, Diary? It’s ok I didn’t get that job. I didn’t really want it anyway.
Ok, I did really want it. I guess I’m just sad about it now. And I can’t sleep.
And there’s ice cream on my pillow now. At least I hope that’s what it is.
Hm. I can still smell the febreeze.
You know what. Yes. I’m gonna talk to Marco tomorrow. Like, a really conversation. Not just big sad cow eyes over the cubicle. Cuz maybe one day I really will leave this job, and I’ll have lost my chance... And if he doesn’t like me, at least I tried.
Ohhhh why is my alarm so loud... I can hear it all the way--
Rufus is asleep on my chest.
It’s so hard to write. And I want to take a picture but my phone is by my bed, screaming with the alarm.
He’s kinda cute. I mean, he’s drooling all over my pyjamas, with his little pug underbite, but I’m already covered in mint chip, anyway--
Omg. He just did the tiniest sneeze. His widdle nose did a widdle shneez.
You little bastard. This is how you get me to love you after Poop-ageddon.
Aw. But he does have the tiniest widdle paws.
Ok, that never happened. I will fight anyone who says I had a moment with that dog.
He’s eating. I think Rufus wants to forget me too. And my couch is a disaster, but what else is new.
I’m not very hungry. Probably cuz I slept so badly.
Where did all this candy come from?
Omg I’m gonna be late.
What’s this note—it looks like my handwriting.
Youu are a magical prinsess and you are brave an beautifool and should ask Marco to the moovies and ALSO DONT EATT THE CANDY
Hm. I’ve thrown out what was left of the degreaser and the febreeze. And the candy. I’m also going to shower.
Alright! Who’s sleep deprived? I’m not sleep deprived. Here’s one well-put-together junior adjunct part-time admin, ready to take on the world.
I might just keep that little note in my purse, though. Cuz... it’s nice.
Till tomorrow, diary.