kiwifruit's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I never really said done did I? Here is the drill. Friday 5PM - ready to run out of here screaming. Must sit tight and look busy for another hour (more or less). Open up status report, leave it on screen so I can escape word at any moment and look like the dedicated advertising account exec that I am. Oh shit ... distraction - Industrial boy is right in my line of sight and I am sweating. He has to look extra special good today. He has on the black shirt that I love way too much - especially like the thought of ripping it off his body ... Ack! Stop. He did call last night. What can I say? I cannot stop obsessing over this guy. Left the door open for him to stomp on me again Saturday night (christ, christ, christ). I wish the fucker would move ought of my vision so I could concentrate here. Okay, now, let's try this again. Going to dinner tonight with the IV (Michael). Some Moroccan place - our reservations aren't until 10:15 so I am going to take a nap first and get my nails done. I am house-sitting for D. this weekend while she is in Washington DC for a wedding. Oh joy, city digs - close to the gym and all things great and wonderful. I was planning on having a v. quiet weekend (oh wait, have you heard this one before?) but Michael just called to say that the deal he has been working on for the past five months has been scrapped. I have two choices: either drink with him, or baby-sit him while he drinks. Hmmm... which would be more fun? Hard to say. I really want to be alive for tomorrow. I am going to Satan's toning class at the gym (my ass will be sore for a week) and then I am going to this fund-raiser thing for a friend of a friend's fashion show. I must be in my best schmooze mood for the day. So ... Arg ... Industrial just walked by and gave me a look ... New Zealand just wrote me a note on my desk "Astor after wk." - Sorry no, getting my nails done I said. Why oh why do we always get EVERYTHING but the very thing we want the most? Oh wait ... it has been requested that we get all these men straight (Candi nearly drove herself mad trying to figure it out the other day). 1. Industrial boy : work with him, love of my sad, sorry life, drives me insane and I should stop kissing him immediately, but I can't, although every morning I wake up and promise I am done 2. New Zealand: ALSO work with him (duh) sits NEXT to Industrial boy to make things more fun, older, v. cute in a Barry Hollywood sort of way (long story), I think he may well be a misogynistic pig but it's fun that he thinks he is playing me when really ... 3. Investment Banker: Michael, Mr. Wonderful if I wanted to settle down and make cute babies or something like that 4. The Feet: When in doubt recycle a relationship that never worked in the first place and never will, only because you hope that he will somehow fall madly in love with who you are now, as an adult. Then you can stomp on him like he did to you when you were young and stupid and fragile and starving yourself. Back when you didn't know that any guy on the cover of New York Magazine as the "quintessential NY man" is NEVER going to make you happy or commit to anything. He is always going to think he is smarter and better than you and you are (sadly) always going to agree with him because you are young and you have no sense of self. Aw shit, feck it. There goes Industrial boy again ... my heart gets all squiggley and I feel like I might vomit or laugh. Teh-heh. Listening to Ani D. full blast on my headphones (helping me through this weak moment). Shit ... I have to get out of this office NOW. Wish me luck. Coming in to the office briefly this weekend to do the status report that I completley avoided just now. Oh, and to do some chart that I stupidly suggested would be a much better way to do things than the way it is currently being done (which is true) but now of course, I have to do it. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Will write more then ... so I can tell everyone about how Industrial never called me on Saturday like he was supposed to and then I can promise that I am done with him and feel all sorry for myself and be forced to eat bad food and get zits (isn't this fun folks?). Fuck, he is MOVING FURNITURE right in front of me now. I must leave before I attack him or have some sort of heart-implosion that leaves a bloody mess on the nice cement floors of our hallowed ad agency. La di da. 18:45:53 - 2000-07-28 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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