This week’s down time has been spent going through and pulling tidbits out of the very personal and detailed journal I’ve kept since 2001/2002. So far, the entries from 2006 and 2007 have become my little darlings. Below, I’m pasting the most recent one I’ve read, only slightly edited for length, clarity, and particularly inappropriate language/tangents.
March 5, 2007
This morning, I walked to the Chinese consulate to pick up a document before work. As I walked past Fairway, a gust of wind blew a mass of plastic sheeting straight into my head at dozens of miles/hour, nearly knocking me over. The left side of my face was a little sore, but I wasn’t incapacitated so I kept going (and came within centimeters of getting hit by a sedan that was speeding down the street I crossed in a daze).
I stood in line at the consulate office for at least 30 minutes, and then walked 12 avenues to work. As soon as I walked into the building, I ran into sexual-tension boy in the kitchen as we were getting coffee. He was at the next machine, but nobody spoke. He looked at me while I was looking away, and I looked at him while he was looking away. He might have wondered why I was wearing what amounted to a sweatshirt on a day when everyone else was bundled up in parkas and face masks. He walked off before I did, glancing at my profile before leaving. We ended up in the same elevator. Another woman was in there with us and it was she who held the closing door open for me as I ambled in. He slurped and smacked at his coffee the whole ride up. The woman and I walked out together, leaving his obnoxious ass behind.
It wasn’t until I went into the bathroom that I saw the blood. It was like Nicole Brown Simpson after an evening alone with O.J. Swelling, a black-and-blue mark, dried bloody scrapes.
Other people in the office didn’t seem to care or even really notice. Nobody’s asked about or mentioned it, and I’ve only volunteered the details to a couple of chosen ones, who all seemed more amused than anything else.
Can I sue Fairway? I love that fucking store and don’t want to be on bad terms with it. If they would just give me 3-5 complimentary quarts of vanilla yogurt, a few pounds of chocolate covered pretzels, and a variety of hearty cheeses, I’d be willing to put the past behind us.
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