day on/day off

There are the days when one is constantly on the verge of tears, tears that can quickly turn to anger when one is around less sensitive beings than one's self.
So, I left work again. No one seemed to notice. I don't care if they do. It felt too nice, walking up Pine, away from the stupid ass law offices of McKinley and Schmirkel, away from the mindless hours that comprise the workday.
I sit in a cafe at a strip mall, in the far corner of the place-the ultimate left hander's table. I watch the various people lining up to attend the movies next door: the two old women who pull their large, soft wallets out 20 paces ahead of the theatre, just like my mother, who uses her turn signal half a mile before her actual turn. One woman is very tall, has a bandage on her wrist and dresses smartly, in a pair of low heeled beige shoes with bows on the toes. They are widowed, I imagine. They manage their money well, keep careful records of bills paid and bills to be paid.
There is a table to my right, talking incessantly about cake. One guy, with a bald patch surrounded by growing out dyed red hair, keeps complaining that the waiter gave him a different kind of cake from the one he ordered, yet when the waiter comes around and asks if everything is alright, the guy poutily says ..."mmmhmm". Now he is talking about how much better the cake is at the Cheesecake Factory. I might freak out on him. If I wanted to hear this inane kind of stuff, I would've stayed at work all day.

A girl like me would be a kept woman who is kept easily by anyone who has a place to crash and seems to offer anything-cable tv-a new carton of cigarettes-anything to stave off the gnawing loud loneliness of regular existance. Me as a kept woman has some sort of chemical dependence. She is never truly happy because she has no discernable self-she enjoys drugs, tabloids, and lots of tv and masturbation because those are the things that make her feel like one with the material, the deed. For all her lovers, she has never felt something other than her otherness. She has an amazing ability to morph into the form of a fairly benign hood ornament, pleasing and unobtrusive. Kept woman is always on the make, in a very unassuming way-not even she knows what's she's up to. Most other people can smell her need before she can.

Who else is here? Loud powerful lesbian with a shaved head and thick black glasses.
Lone black woman, wearing an XXL sweatsuit and mumbling to herself. Is she on a phone? Is there a phone somewhere on her? Workout sweats, aerobic sneaks, and cake. Salve for my burns. OK, she has a phone in her right ear. Shew, I thought she looked together.

Sometimes it's the people with killer instincts I can't stand. But boy, do I admire them. The ability to get things done, to cross errands off their lists in rapid succession, to enroll in programs and get up at 6am to go on jogs, to piss off the waiters and cashiers by being demanding and difficult. I admire people who don't mind being hated, who can stay up all night and sleep all day. I am too obedient-even to the sun and moon, who don't care what I do or when I do it. My roommate, an extremely hard worker, has the ability to focus all of her efforts on one thing at a time: to work hard, play hard, and sleep all day on the weekend. I exist in a more neurotic, semi-agitated state all the time.

Everyone is a fake, to some degree. And I think that when people are not fake, we call them crazy. Crazy people are annoying too, but I would probably rather be in the company of someone crazy than someone completely fake. Unless said crazy person was a poo flinger. I don't like superficiality, but then again, I don't like it so real that someone is throwing their poo around either. There's gotta be some middle ground.