Samantha’s first gangfight …

… and it probably won’t be her last. Shame on me for buying an indigo-blue car when I work in a neighborhood overrun by Bloods.

I was driving along Liberty Avenue today when I started crying. Life should be wonderful for me right now. I have disposable income, a car, a social life, a wonderful family … what more could I need?

I need a new job. Desperately.

HRP is one heinous bitch to work for. I’ve been screwing up left and right, and she isn’t mincing any words by reminding me what a failure I am. Daily. Sometimes even more frequently than that. I understand that she has to criticize my work. But now that she’s dragging my personality into it, she has gone too far.

I refuse to record the hell I’ve lived through during the past six workdays. I have learned, though, that I will never, ever be right. And it doesn’t count that with the exception of Tiffany (whom I only have part-time till she leaves in June), she gave me a useless staff. I think it was the written warning that topped off my week, though. She’s a prize, I’ll tell ya.

I told F/OM that the directors are all a bunch of self-loathing masochists, as we take so much unnecessary abuse, act like she’s right all the time, and keep on trucking. I told him I am looking for another job, and that I can’t stand being this unhappy. He seems supportive of me, but I see his own weariness that he tries to hide. He loves his work, loves the agency’s mission. I don’t. I understand the mission, and I want kids in foster care to have good lives, but I don’t give a rat’s ass about their crackhead birthparents, nor their food stamps or TANF and whatever else.

My car got scratched up in January. My beautiful, brand-new baby. It’s a gang thing, I think, as I have an indigo car in a neighborhood overrun by Bloods. Parallel, 14-inch scratches on the hood. Mom has a cop friend who said that is a calling card, a sign that someone will be back. I am so sick of all the trashy men who hoot and holler at me, slimy bastards. It could be anyone. Brat was kind enough to walk me to my car for a few days, but now I just jet out early, as long as it’s daylight. HRP said that I can just pull my car around the front of the building, so I don’t have to walk so far in the dark by myself. Now why couldn’t she just tell me to keep going home at a reasonable hour? It’s not enough that I hate my job, but I hate the areas in which we work (East Liberty and Homewood).

It’s ironic – I used to feel unsafe outside of our buildings. Now, with her temper and ultimate distaste for me, I feel just as unsafe within the doors and walls, as well.

Brat got suspended for a stupid reason, and much to my chagrin, he wasn’t in the office on Monday. We’d gone to happy hour the Friday before that. No major highlights other than before he left, he pulled me into his arms and squeezed me so tightly. I ended up walking him to the door of Buffalo Blues, where we talked and looked into each other’s eyes. I know I could have kissed him and gotten away with it, but I didn’t attempt it (god knows we’re in enough trouble – I am starting to see very clearly why, even back then, he warned me that we could get fired for the slightest thing). When we were talking in the doorway, I could see him trying to reach out to me, and I finally let him. How I missed holding him. How I loved being pressed against him, stroking his side with my hand, holding my cheek against his.

I didn’t even try to put my lips to his, although I wanted to. I wanted to take him outside, to throw him against the nearest wall and slide my tongue into his mouth. But instead, I said, “Goodnight, Sweetie,” and our eyes met. He left shortly afterward. And I’ve been longing for him ever since.

It was the right thing to do, not indulging the magnetic force pulling us together, right? Because he’s been fine, living without me, for the past two months … and even though I want to love him and show him that love in any way possible, I can’t keep waiting for random moments like these. It does my heart well to know that he still wants me, and it gives me the hope that perhaps in his heart of hearts, he longs for me in some way. But I need so much more than this. So very much more.

The magic’s still there. I knew it would never leave. And if it’s meant to be, our time will come. I was hoping that Jeff’s existence would catapult Brat into reaching out for me again, but it didn’t happen. Not yet. I guess I hope that, when one or the other (and hopefully both) of us finds a new job, then we can be together.

There is always the chance that we will lose touch, when we each find new employment. But that is a chance I have to take. I love seeing him every day. I love the way our eyes lock unexpectedly. I love the way his eyes light up when I walk into his office to ask him a question or hand him Cassandra’s timesheet. I love the heat that passes between our bodies when we touch, and even when we don’t.

Jeff’s entry into my life was unexpected, and his departure, I have been expecting since the beginning. He’s still around – calls once in awhile; always instant messages me when he sees me online. I check up on him now and again, as there is a chat room I know he frequents.

In all honesty, I never trusted him, and I still don’t. And frankly, I don’t enjoy spending time with him. The sex is mind-blowing, though. That’s the only reason I didn’t make him hit the road. We disagree on pretty much everything, and he refuses to spend weekend nights with me. He was content with weekday sex, so he could get up and run home afterward. He did stay over a few Friday nights, though. But once the booty calls were over, there was nothing left for us. I think we had our last fuckfest two weeks ago – our “one for the road,” if you will. Valentine’s Day came and went, and Dawn, Lynda and I called him from the bar at Alexander’s, and I decided once and for all that I no longer need the occasional fuck from him. I’ll be lucky if I don’t end up with a disease.

At any rate, it is sad that I can sum up our two-month relationship in one paragraph.

I’m not sure what I want out of this journal entry today. Maybe solace, maybe sanity, maybe sapience. At any rate, I hate working for Two Strikes, and without Brat’s smile, CTL’s concern, F/OM’s empathy and Tiffany’s wit, I would have left a long time ago. Now is the time for me to springboard, to use my title and position to find an even better job, even if it means taking a lower position and/or salary with another company. HRP has been threatening me with demotion and termination. I’d like to beat her to the punch. And frankly, sometimes I just want to punch her instead. There were two good jobs in the classifieds today (gotta love the Sunday paper) – I think I need to update that resume ASAP.

I speak to Wayne frequently. He’s so happy, now that he owns his own business. Works crazy, long hours, and love every fricking minute of it. I want to be that deliriously happy with my chosen profession. Friends are reminding me that I was never really happy with Two Strikes, even from the beginning. They say that I needed out of ES, and now I need out of here, too. It’s too bad, because I can really make something out of my position. But there’s too much to do, and not enough qualified labor. And they’re not happy that I am not in school yet. When the fuck would I find the time? And the energy? And the heart?!?!

All I want out of life, right now, is to be happy. I want health, wealth and love. I don’t’ need riches – I just need enough to be comfortable. I want a job that makes me want to awaken in the morning. And I want Brat by my side. Is that too much to ask?

Comments closed.