Figaro reads this blog sometimes. That’s fine by me, I haven’t had much to write about him that I haven’t said to his face, and if I did I wouldn’t write it here. In a general kind of way, when I started this blog I made the decision that anything I put in it could be read by anybody, except possibly my parents, though even them without inducing tears or deep, sinking feelings of dread in the pit of their stomachs. So I don’t mind that he reads it once in awhile.
Now I think one of my ex-boyfriends has found this blog. I don’t know how I feel about that, exactly. I’ve decided to not think about it any more. Besides mentioning it now, and saying I guess that I’m being as diplomatic as I care to these days. So read on, MacDuff. But I’m not absorbing any more anger from spectators when there’s so much else they could be looking at.
That said, not much else to say today. Lady's Big Bertha is just devastating. Pardon the ongoing whine but it's driving me crazy how little time I have to do what I really want to do instead of work, especially since if just a few key things changed at work (like the mandate of the company, the morality of my industry, or even the distribution of my hours), work'd be what I want to do. It's harder to take these days because of the uber-dark evenings, I guess; it's bloody sick to live in a country that's night when you leave your office at 5:30.