Page 28 of Loathing My Boss
Yet I continue to hate, and I continue to type, because it’smy jobto make a book, not judge it.
Except, of course, that isn’t my job at all.
Myjobis to sort emails, organize schedules, feed a grown man, and handle his accounts sohecan make a book, because that’shisjob.
Writing is the hobby I fuel in the after work hours because Iloveit.
I love writing.
I love words, and sentences, and stories. I love keeping lists of all the interesting vocabulary I might find places for in my next jaunt through fantasy. I love building Canva Whiteboards with picture collages of settings and characters. I love gettingeverything—justeverything—out of my skull and onto a page, where it can’t hurt me anymore.
Because it’s gone. Forgotten. Lost in a sea of letters, drowning in the endless narrative.
I don’t have to think about whether or not anyone will like what I’m putting down. I just have toget. it. out.Because maybe then it will stop feeling like acid in my veins, wearing a hole in my heart.
It sucks.
I know that.
It’s just plain bad writing.
There’s so little good about it that a kind man, who has never said a rude word to me in the two years I’ve personally known him, couldn’t find a single nice thing to say about it.
Try again. From the start. Redo everything. The characters. The plot. The very style itself. And then try again, even. Also, yourfifteenth draftreads like afirst.
Cheers.
It hurts to swallow.
Rage burns in my chest, sawing at my lungs with every breath.
What’s wrong with me?
What’s wrong with me?
What’s wrong with me?
What’s wrong with you? Are you serious right now, Crisis?What’s wrong with you?That is hilarious.Youshould do stand up. They can put you on right after the lady who gives the motivational thought. What’s wrong with me is very clear, very obvious, very blatant.
I am the kind of woman who gets a bad email, yeets everything out of her life in order to research becoming a personal assistant, hunts down a man she’s decided inexcusably wronged her, and commits to becoming his worst nightmare.
That’swhat’s wrong with me.
I am mental.
Absolutely mental.
And everyone growing up couldtell, and that’s why I was a walking crisis no one wanted to be around. That’s why all the kids berated me, constantly, running from me, picking on me, calling me names,hurtingme.
There was a whole semester that went by where the children made a game of my infamous personality quirk.
The game was calledwho can hurt Crisis the most without getting in trouble?
Thumbtacks in my chair, needles worked into my locker handle, “accidentally” tripping me—downstairs.
The torment was endless.
Endless.
