bitterdiva

I am a werewolf, hear me roar

I am crying. I’m sitting at my desk crying for no reason at all and yet for every reason there is. For all the injustice in the world, for all those who have died from cancer, for the cut I just received on my hand from searching on the floor. I’m crying. It built up slowly; the tightness in the chest, the feeling of no control, the eyes become painful as the tear ducts prime themselves for release, and the nose begins to run.

I’m sitting at my desk crying because I had to take down my Halloween lights, something about policy. I was standing in the hallway bringing back a bouquet of roses for a coworker that was delivered to her for some reason. My boss seizes the opportunity to strike up a conversation about the roses that I’m currently embracing. They aren’t my roses which I’m upset about, not that the recipient shouldn’t receive them, it’s just that tomorrow’s my birthday. It would be nice to receive flowers from someone on my birthday. Back to my boss who never talks to me and is now having a conversation about roses. The conversation passes and now he’s in for the kill, I am to take down my lights because of some policy. I stare down at the roses and contemplate for couple of beats of my heart chucking the dozen long stemmed roses in their heavy vase at the head of my boss. The urge subsides because my brain realizes this would be a Very Bad Idea.

I’m sitting at my desk crying because I’m pre-menstrual. Men don’t understand and I’m surrounded by them. I am choking on myself trying not to be caught by the people in my office, hoping they don’t see me crying. I’m convinced that I am going insane because this behavior is irrational but I know why this behavior is irrational and I know I shouldn’t be crying, but I’m vulnerable. I’m a victim to my emotions and hormones and thus I am sitting here pounding my fingers against the keyboard attempting to bring myself back to something that resembles a busy worker bee.

I’m sitting at my desk with a pile of tissues in the trashcan because I couldn’t hold it in. And as each wave of angst and pain passes someone comes up to me and asks why my cute little skeletons are no longer up. With a deadly look and a stern face I look at them and reply, “I don’t want to talk about it.” The evil side takes control and the pain on my face disappears leaving only anger to be seen. It’s the Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde syndrome coming out - the duality of my persona. I start to believe I am a werewolf; there is no moon to be the onset of my symptoms, it is however based on a 28-day schedule. And around blood. Except it’s my blood, my hormones, and my fucking body sending me into this dizzying rage of emotions and it’s all because I have two sets of lips.

02:41 PM

Comments

Posted by: Broooke at May 3, 2004 06:55 PM

Posted by: Christopher Corrales at March 8, 2011 06:37 AM

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