tomorrow it will be a week since last monday at 5pm. 5pm last monday found me in my executive director's office, listening to her tell me that, in my supervisor's opinion, i was not a good match. for the agency, yes of course. for my office, not so much.

at my ed's request, i put some things down 'in writing'. in the course of presenting them to my supervisor, i can only assume that the proverbial shit went down and i got the shaft, even though i was promised that wouldn't happen.

and so.

i have moved through the no sleeping phase, into the angry phase. i have likely done dire harm to my brain with the hours my cell phone was stuck to my ear. i packed up my things in a bankers box, and hefted them into my car. they are still there, almost one week later; pens, rolodex, photos, computer speakers, jangling jangling in a lavender striped office depot box. where to put them at home? they are not home things.

last week i spent three days in bed, then got into the car and drove south to the balmy ocean community of my mom's house, to drown my sorrows in little yippy dogs and oprah magazines. i am thisclose to praising the genius of eckhart tolle, only i'm having more trouble than i seem to think i should be having banishing the bad thoughts from my brain in favor of the idea that the thoughts do not describe me, my soul is an honest and sacred thing not made up of the stories surrounding it.

or maybe i've misunderstood his whole premise.

in news that makes me feel better: my (old) officemates are up in arms at my demise. don't mess with the bluestockings, man. i have received surreptitious emails linking me to the "greivance process" in the job guidelines. i have had rabblerouser phone calls proclaiming (really) "this couldn't happen if we had a union!" i have had numerous texts and voicemails asking, "are you ok? really? what happened? we miss you. call me." and it all has felt very good, though a little bit like i wish i knew how to play guitar so i could write a good folksong about it.

but what folksong? i got screwed by the feminists? my mother would not approve.


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