Recovery

Well, it's been a day shy of two weeks that I came home to discover that I was newly-single and, all things considered, I think I'm doing much better! I feel a little bad that I haven't been crying but, really, what is there to be sad about?! I was in a bad relationship that wasn't working, and he left. So what if it was unexpected and cowardly? Yes, I do miss him, but c'est la vie.

I had my first head-shrinking appointment on Monday and scored some pills. I've only taken one so far. She prescribed me Lamictal for the mood stabilizer, Klonopin to relax me and it should help my TMJ too, and Ambien so I can sleep. Dude. I need to keep seeing this lady.

My new medication, the Lamictal, made me violently ill for a few days. One of the side effects listed is "stuffy or runny nose" and, boy, did it hit me. Hard. I almost went home from work. I couldn't stop sneezing and it felt like I had the flu. I'm still a little messed up, but I was so sick for a couple of days that I just went to sleep as soon as I got a chance. I didn't check email, I didn't text...I was sick and boring.

Now, Tom isn't in my every waking thought. He isn't even what I think of most anymore. Everything is just much better than before, even when he WAS here. Now, I do what I want, rather than waiting on him for things or, even worse, him coming home and just falling asleep on the couch. God, that used to piss me off.

So, my friend G and I came up with something I like to call the Groove Recovery Project, or GRP for short. It's kind of funny how this whole idea started. I was cleaning up on Tom's side of the bed and he had a ton of just random crap lying around. I was on the phone with G, telling her a little bit about what I was doing in between conversations. I said something about the unused condoms in the drawer. G said, "You know what you should do? You should find a guy and use those condoms, Stillie! It would be cleansing!" Me being me, I said, "No, I should find a different guy for each of these condoms. Now THAT would be cleansing!" Well, I eventually opened the drawer and, much to our surprise, there was a full box: 12. Oops.

sidenote: Yep. That's how much sex Tom and I were NOT having. So little sex that condoms were necessary, because I just went off the Pill.

So, G said something to the effect of, "Well, you rewrote the rules and it's not my fault you have a whole dozen. Get to work!" And, me being me, said, "okay!" and began compiling a list of 12 candidates. She said they didn't have to be new conquests, but I think I'll start with the ones I haven't had sex with yet, and work my way down. So far I've come up with 5 I've never had sex with, 3 that were from before I got married, and 2 from between my ex-husband and Tom. And there's no way to guarantee that those first 5 will actually do me...it's kind of an estimation. I know I could easily have 3 of them, but we'll have to see. I need to think it through all the way to make sure I don't create an awkward situation later.

Before I do all of this, I really just need to ask myself: is this really going to help me? And before I bitch-slap the little voice inside me that's asking that, I should probably try to take that question seriously. But you know I probably won't. My mindset is that of entertainment, power-tripping, and self-esteem rebuilding. It's not about trying to form a lasting relationship with anyone. It's not about wanting validation for who I am as a person. It's about knowing someone still finds me attractive enough to fuck me. Nothing more, and nothing less. Collecting boys has always made me feel good about myself.

The one I want so badly but don't know how to approach: a guy I'll call Stray Cat. But that's another story for another time. In the meantime, I'll just say this: I do loathe him. He's a jerk. He's a cheater, a liar, a felon, and an ex-con. But he's incredibly fucking hot. REALLY hot. And what do I care if he's all those things; I need him for one thing and one thing only. And maybe - just maybe - I'll get an even better little zing for knowing I'm fucking this guy that Tom hates but used to be friends with. There's also something incredibly arousing about having meaningless sex with someone I absolutely can't stand, all because he's so incredibly good to look at. Sick? Yes. But that's me.
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Single Again

I haven't been around, really, because Tom left me. I know this shouldn't be a surprise, as I had been telling him to get out for some time now, but then we'd reconcile and try to make things work, but this was out of nowhere. He blindsided me and suckerpunched me by moving out in the middle of the day while I was at work and leaving a goddamned cowardly note!

Friday afternoon I got home and noticed everything looked a little disheveled. When I went to my bathroom to change clothes, I opened the closet and noticed his gun safe was gone. That's when I started looking for all his "important" stuff and realized it was all gone.

Well, almost all of it. He left his family photo album, which I know meant a lot to him, so I'm not sure what to do about that. He also left a Weatherby 300 Mag rifle and a 410 Snakecharmer shotgun. Half his clothes are still here, too! I have no idea why it seems like he was in such a hurry.

My main problem is that he could have simply said, "Hey, I found an apartment and will be moving out next week," but he didn't. Instead, he stole away like a thief in the day and hid. I'm blocked on every phone line from calling him, he refuses to reply to emails, and I just that's a pussy-ass way to leave.

Oh, and he also stuck me with the all the bills that he ran up like crazy: my gas bill and electricity bill is sky-high because of his usage. But now I get to pay it.

So, that's what I've been dealing with. I've started drinking again, obviously, because it's the only way I can cope, and I'm climbing right back on that horse: I called an ex-fling from a before I met Tom and he came over and gave me a good romping. And Scott, the horrible, horrible ex I've written about before, is coming down this weekend. So yay for me and Valentine's Day Sex!

Yes, I am also aware that I am traveling down a self-destructive path, but it's okay for two reasons: 1) I'm settling back into my normal self, and 2) I have a psychiatric appointment on Monday! Look out, I'm a TICKING TIME BOMB!
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Write-of-Passage Challenge #5: The Job

Re-create for us your first job, your first "real" job, your last job. Tell us details about your first day, or last day. Not generalities like, "My boss sucked" because we've all learned from Dooce not do to that.

But pick a day of your life in a significant, or completely insignificant, job and make us feel like we're living it with you.

Well, I don't know who Dooce is, but yes, my boss did suck and I don't care who hears me say it.

Ahem. Back we go, about 11 years.

I got here 15 minutes early, hoping to catch a glimpse of The Boss before he runs off. I'm not even sure if he's been coming in this early or if he's been here at all, but he's been missing for 3 days and today is pay day. I want my check.

There is no doubt about it: Boss is a freak. He's a Filipino man with bad skin, and he's as wide as he is tall. But he sounds like a total hillbilly hick. It wouldn't surprise me if he was into some super-shady shit. He drinks even here at work, and he comes in here sometimes looking strung out in the worst way. There's no doubt that he's spending a lot of his money on drugs. So. Maybe that's the answer.

I've made four phone calls in two hours, but I can't stop thinking about The Boss. I'm totally confused. He OWNS this business. Why would you just disappear for 3 days? This is a small office. There's only 3 of us skiptracers, 4 repo men, a husband and wife team of lender liaison slash storage lot attendant, and The Boss. And no one has heard from him, not even the husband guy - The Boss's Right Hand Man.

I wonder what could have possibly happened to him. Maybe he found Jesus/Allah/Buddah/Shiva and decided to join a monastery. Perhaps he got arrested for using/selling/buying drugs. Maybe he got shot in a repo (no, i'd hear about that on the news). What if he was riding his dirt bike, fell off, hit his head, split his helmet, sustained a head injury, and now he's an amnesiac in the hospital? Maybe he repo'd a connected mobster's car and he was tracked down and concreted into one of the support pillars on the new freeway west of town. What if he went out on his boat, got all fucked up, and fell overboard into the Gulf? Maybe he OD'd in his house. What if he got caught up in a heavy craps game and lost the repo company in the game and he's not even the one in charge here anymore?!

Regardless of any of this, why wouldn't you at least call your main guy and let him know what's up? Bad shit going down is the only explanation.

Well, well, well. Look who just walked in, a few minutes before noon, no less. He's motioning for me to come out of the office and into the conference room. Uh-oh. He's gathering all of us. SHIT. This can't be good. I really don't want to, but...fuck. Everyone else is in there.

"...and it was so dark in there, I'm not sure if I lost my phone at that titty bar, or if it was the one after that. I was pretty wasted, and I was looking for a bitch with perfect tits..."

What. The. Hell. Are you kidding me?

"...couldn't find her at the first place so, even though I was lit, I ended up going to three more. But I finally found her. So she's dancing on me with this perfect set of tits in my face, bouncing up and down, and I ask her, 'so, you wanna go get a hotel room, get drunk, do some blow, and fuck?' and she said yes, so she cashed outta there and we took off..."

No way did he just say "get drunk, do some blow, and fuck." But yes, I'm pretty sure that's what I heard. And why are so many of these other people laughing? Don't they realize how fucked up that is? Not that he did it, I guess, but that he's telling us about it?!

"...Crowne Plaza - an executive suite - and started out with the Crown, champagne, and Southern Comfort. Then we spent some time fucking on the balcony. She actually stopped me so she could pop some kind of pill and I don't know what it is and she didn't offer me any. Then we took a shower and we broke the shower head off the wall..."

This must be a joke. Why does he keep rubbing his wrists? I wonder if he was doing something kinky and has rope burns or some shit.

"...and when we we'd finished up all the coke, I asked her if she'd ever tried smoking crack before. She said she had, and wanted some if I had any. So I gave her a rock. It was weird, because she started acting all hyper-horny and wanted to fuck again. Who am I to turn a lady down?!"

A lady? Ha. Not likely.

"...bent over and fucking her in the ass and I was giving it to her like I've never fucked a bitch before. I mean, she DID have perfect tits. And she was screaming and moaning and making some FUCKED up noises, ripping the fabric on the chair and all kinds of shit. Then she came harder than - I thought she was going to pinch my cock off - and thrashing all over..."

Why am I still listening to this?? I should be leaving right about -

"...foaming at the mouth and puking. She wasn't having an orgasm - she was convulsing! The goddamned bitch was ODing with my cock in her ass! And in some fucked up reasoning, I couldn't stop, because I've never had a bitch twist and squeeze the way that dying bitch did and it felt so good, but, at the same time, I had to stop because I didn't want a dead bitch stuck to my cock!"

I wonder if I could go to jail just for hearing this?

"...couldn't just leave her there. I mean, the room was in my name! I was too fucked up to think straight, so when I called the cops, I went to jail for the crack and pills. Those fuckers, though, jacked my cash! I had $4000 with me, and they TOOK it! I hate crooked cops, man! I never did find out that bitch's real name. The cops wouldn't tell me, but I have to go to court in three days..."

Bye. I quit. But I'm not saying it out loud until I get that check. I canNOT believe this guy's talking about fucking an ODing hooker, and he's laughing about it. And so are all the other people in this office. And, even though I like a good "I was fucked up and guess what happened" story, I can't stop thinking about that titty dancer's mother. Or father. Or child. And although I love the gritty reality of the repo business, I can't be around these kinds of people. It's disgusting in the worst way.

Ahem. It's me again. Today's Stillie.

I had written this entry right up the part where the dancer OD'd and then hit something and the browser went back two pages. It even answered "yes" to the dialog box about 'are you sure you want to navigate away from this page' even though I didn't push anything. Possession. That's the only solution.

Yeah, this is all a true story. I worked at that repo office for about 6 weeks and that Friday was my last day. I knew repo men were the bottom of the barrel, but I don't understand why I can't find people like me in the industry: people with morals and a sense of decency. I mean, if people don't pay for stuff, it's not theirs, but you don't have to be a total shit-for-brains to take it back, yet it seems like all of them are. I did more repo stuff after that, but it was with independent contractors working directly for the bank. I miss doing that stuff.

A couple of years later, I met a guy who knew one of the employees at that company when I was there, and said they were out of business in a matter of months after that. I never heard why, but one can guess.

Sometimes it seems like I'm living a totally different life. I used to be exciting, on the edge, almost dangerous. And now I'm...boring. It's 8:40 and I'm yawning. In my better days, I was getting ready to clock in to my second job and work until 3am. Oh well. I suck now.

So. What is your job story?
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