l i l e p h y t e

February 17th, 22:42 | 'Estie' is just way more satisfying than 'fuck' sometimes

Feeling a little cruel. I'm glad I'm not online, because were I, Workboy would be getting seriously torn up right about now. All his constant whiny messages about me lying about not having time to talk to him (note: he's never on earlier than 1am; my schedule kind of demands I be sleeping by then, and if I'm not it's definitely not because I've got time to chat) etc. came to a head last week sometime. I sent him a link I thought he'd like (about flying cars; he's a car freak) and he got all defensive "Yeah, I may be talking to you, but I'm still mad at you"-like. For some reason, I walked him through this highschool drama-soapage. I was nice. I was placating. But he was still mad. Apparently. And today he finally told me why.

After spending pretty much all of yesterday with Boy (We'll be there Wednesday, okay? We're going to be downtown all day, essentially. Is there a time that's good?) I was all happy that I got to eat lunch with him today. He tried sushi for the first time at the Japanese place spitting distance from Work. Workboy materialized in the restaurant while I was trying to explain the food on the menu to my boy. He doesn't say hi or make eye contact so I do. I get "Oh, your new boyfriend, eh?" (in Chinese) followed by "Yeah... I know you..."

If I hadn't been occupied by better things, he would've gotten tea thrown in his face. He does not know me. He knows nothing about me. That has not stopped him, however, from throwing that sentence at me every single time he starts off a conversation with "So what've you been up to? Fucking some new whiteboy, huh? Yeah, yeah, whatever. I know you." or variant thereupon. I couldn't give a rat's ass what esteem he holds me in, but it really fucking bothers me that he's all perched on a high horse with the idea that in the space of three conversations this moron, who wouldn't know wit if it slapped him in the face, thinks he's got me figured out. And I told him so.

I got back to work after lunch (the Boy got me another Godzilla figurine! one that required assembly! he's the best!!!) to find messages on my machine saying "I'm angry at you, 'cause you like to lie". It was busy, and didn't get a break for about 10 calls in a row. I was in A Mood by the time I got to writing Workboy back. And write him back I did.

Having flayed his sorry ass for being self-centered enough to project all his assumptions on me and have the brass face to constantly challenge and get on my ass about my life and demand I justify myself and what I'm doing, I now feel much better. Depending on how he behaves for the rest of the week, I may or may not destroy the rest of his ego. I'm cruel, but he's worked me up to this. Now every time I think of him, Bif's "Tango Shoes" blares in my head. I like it.

Which brings me to my next point. Having watched Gerard Depardieu's version of Cyrano yesterday, I've found a love story I love more than R&J. Seriously. The poetry alone is a good reason. I never read Cyrano in school, and more's the pity. Spent most of today reading it in pdf form, and it's fabulous. I'm reminded of An Ideal Husband and all the famous disses of English parliament.

Forget the fact that the top 10 quoted sources are from shitty television shows. The sign of mounting illiteracy in our society isn't that no one reads, or that people are more likely to know shitty song lyrics than decent passages. The proof is in the fact that we can't even come up with decent insults anymore. Since when do "yeah? well, your mother," or "you slutty bag of ho!" qualify as even remotely well-thought-out retorts to anything? Is that really the best we can come up with?? I was depressed the other day in the shower at the fact that when I swear it's not nearly as colourful as it could be.

It's now obvious to me that I shouldn't be worrying so much about decorating my sailor-like cursing, but practicing my scathing commentry on my teammates. (In other news, swearing in French(-Canadian) really is more fun. Seriously. "Estie!" is just way more satisfying than "fuck!" sometimes. Only when it's not serious though.)

...See my sexy metamorphosis
right before your angry eyes
I stick a red rose in between my lips,
turn on my heel,
and dance out of your life

So. With this episode of stalling all done, I'm going to finish up my psych now.

Happy birthday, baby.

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