The Allure of Office Supplies

This morning I got an email that made me want to vomit, just a little, but not in that way you’re thinking of because I know you’re thinking that my violent reaction is due to some strange repulsion or perhaps the gaudy display of sandals worn with pantyhose or even a picture of small children being beaten with stilettos (because both are equally repulsive). It’s not even the vomit initiated by a bad piece of tilapia or an undercooked chicken sandwich. It’s the kind of vomit that I get on First Days or when I’ve blatantly told a lie that I know deep down in my soul is so going to come back and bite me in the ass. It’s the quivery stomach-on-strike feeling I get when I’m waiting for a boy to pick me up for a date or when I’ve got a job interview that literally forces my entire gastro-intestinal system to clench in fear.

The timing of this email couldn’t have been worse. I mean, I just sat in my car the other day and looked at one of my best friends and told her how content I was. How everything felt like a Lithium bubble- perfect and clear and guaranteed to give the world a glossy, shiny hue of rose petal dreams. That’s not to say that I stopped feeling things altogether because I’m not really on Lithium, I’m just sort of floating. It’s a nice float, don’t get me wrong. The water’s nice and the fish don’t bite too hard. I’m not sure when it happened but one day I woke up and realized everything really was okay. Not like a pretend okay but really okay. My new job is nice, my apartment is nice, my hair is normally agreeable 4 out of the 7 days in the week and I get to write here, as often as I want.

And so I’ve been pulling up this email for the past two and a half hours, periodically re-reading it, memorizing every word, trying to get my head around what it took for him to write it.

The thing is, I don’t hate you, Jack. I never did. I mean, there was that pesky incident where I stood up in front of your class and told you to go fuck yourself. And, okay, there might have been a wee bit of hate that day but Aunt Flow was probably visiting. By the way this doesn’t give you free reign to make jokes about menstruation. I’m just saying. What’s strange is that three weeks ago I looked you up on the internet and found that movie you made listed on imdb.com and I wanted to send you something congratulatory because after like a bazillion years it was finally done. Or at least the imdb gnomes think so.

Anyway, sorry ‘bout all that.

So I’ve sat at my desk and stared at my green speckled cubicle walls in between viewings of this email. I thought I’d gotten rid of that urge that makes me want to scream in the parking lot at the top of my lungs or throw the cats in the car and never come back. This urge used to be so strong it was an act of whatever deity you pray to just to get me out of the car in the mornings. Many an hour has been spent with my head resting on the steering wheel with silent inner monologue running rampant in my head.

Here’s where I actually explain why I got that that feeling listed above, the heinous nausea that makes me want to crawl under my desk and retch silently into my trashcan. It’s because I so desperately want it to be true. I want it I want it I want it. I want it like a fat kid wants cake. Like a drowning man needs air. Like a girl needs a shoe sale. Whatever analogy you want to use, just know that I Want It.

I just don’t know how to get it.

And that’s what makes me sick to my stomach. The fact that someone thinks I’m talented and that someone isn’t my blood-sister-BFF or genetic relative, not to mention someone I strangely respect (the whole fuck-you university incident not withstanding).
It’s almost more than I want to think about this Thursday morning.