There’s a party happening somewhere in my building complex. I can hear it through my closed windows. They’re probably chugging alcohol through their buttholes, but what do I know? I’m just sitting here watching Moana before it leaves Netflix—who am I to judge?
So, bitches. Here’s what’s been going on in my life, since I know most of you have just been dying to know (maybe not enough to send me fanmail but that’s okay), “Is she still alive? Has she survived the immeasurable sadness of Maximus’ passing? Is she still sad all the time?” All good questions, my dears.
I’m having a crisis. But I’m handling it. (I swear, this post won’t be a complete despair-schlog, even though we all know that you’re also here for the despair-schlog, so…)
Last Tuesday, December 11, marked my five years of living in New York City. I thought it was a pretty big deal, you know, because I thought I’d be dead by now. I mean, I never had a greater ambition other than to just survive here, let alone for as sustained a time as five years (probably just jinxed myself). As I look around at my one-bedroom apartment—which I fucking pay for by my damn independent self—with my dog’s fucking hair everywhere, my burden of a goldfish, my Santaria candles and sage (I’m really into that shit these days), my five different clay masks for immortality, and the rest of my shit that I purchased with my own damn money, I can’t help but feel a sense of pride. I feel like an adult. I deserve wine.
HOWEVER, as was the case when I first started my life in NYC, I’m stuck in a job that makes me want to suicide myself every day. In some cruel twist of irony, my anniversary day was when my entire organization took an “unconscious bias” training half-course (because we’re too fucking cheap to take this seriously) in which directors chortled at their own wokeness and forgot that the only reason the organization was doing this in the first place is because it’s overdue for a lawsuit. After months of trying to put it off, then several more months of trying to find the cheapest facilitator possible, there we were, bleeding out three and a half hours in our conference room to learn that the only two outcomes are as follows: 1) you can’t force people to change, and 2) it’s up to you which hill you die on. And what fascinating timing, because now is a very apt time to have a training on how not to be a dicknozzle.
Sure-as-shit true story: my boss has joined forces with her office arch-nemesis, her boss (our executive director), to get me fired. Why? Because I made her aware that she was white when I called her out for making a very ignorant comment. She internalized it thusly: “As a white woman, I just can’t get anything right.” What started off as an innocent email suggesting a slight change became a really awkward confrontation, after which a meeting to go over my job description was scheduled by HR an hour later. I declined, asking to push it back to later in the week once the bomb diffused (I know exactly what this shit is), and my boss “took it and ran with it” all the way to my executive director’s office (the one I filed a complaint of racial discrimination against at the beginning of the year—I know, fuck me right?). Now they want to fire me and say that it’s because of my poor performance (funny, because everyone knows I work my dick off, and my performance was never an issue until about five seconds ago).
My boss also told HR that she no longer feels “safe” around me, and my executive director complained that we (the organization) didn’t have issues with racism until I showed up. There: I created racism.
Long story short, my racism-generating ass is on 90-day probation. It takes incredible strength of will (and more expensive wine) to stomach going into work every day and sharing oxygen with these two, but alas. I’m doing it. Because I’m that bitch.
“You can’t defeat a bad bitch. You just cannot do that. I rise above that. EW!”
And if they do fire me, I’ll just sue and use the money to finally write my memoir about nothing.
In other news, breakup is going as well as can be expected: some days I’m Chaka Khan Every Woman, other days I’m softly singing Ken Lee into the pitch darkness of my bedroom as I cry myself to sleep. I’d date, but I’m terrified of that moment when the poor, unfortunate (preferably smokin’ hot) soul who mistakenly finds me interesting and wholesome discovers this blog and realizes I’m a psychopath. I just don’t know if I have the bandwidth to deal with that right now.
So, where is this blog after five years? Well, it started off as cheeky but pretty intelligent, and then it just backslid down into the darkest, most rank crevices of my being, and I think that’s where it’ll stay, to be honest. To be fair, a lot of you seem to really respond to my use of decorative language to narrate my own demise, so I think I’ll just stick with that; expect continued use of that in the next five years. Undoubtedly, I’m going to [unwillingly] keep myself poor, take leaps of faith that inevitably turn out to be terrible ideas, cry to Disney films, beg my niece and nephews for the love that they’ll never give, date fuckboys, and not work out ever. The future is bright.
Also, this happened today:
Get yourself someone in your life who keeps it real. Who shows you the one true path to being impoverished with dignity. You probably have too many people in your life who lie to your face and talk shit about how sad you are behind your back. Just throwing that out there.
GoFundMe for my holiday wine is still underway. Stay tuned.