� bled... and bled dead. � 2003-08-21 � 9:04 p.m. �
I am fucking bled...
I am made promises of relief... of whiskey... I deserve a bottle, he says, and I deserve to be allowed to drink it at my desk.
Amen.
I look tired, he says. Well MAYBE I am. Maybe I can't always paint the happy face and pretend for the sake of his livelyhood. He expects that. I can't give it. Not always.
It's showing on us. ALL of us. My unhappiness... my annoyance... and I chalked it up to perfectionism. The flaw that fails me. I work to the very best of my ability... I complete everything I do to the best of capability and I expect that of everyone else.
I am a born Aries. Born not to serve. Born NOT to please others. Born not to give and give and give and give and get nothing in return. It doesn't fulfill me.
I don't have the patience needed to deal with fuckheads. I don't have nerves strong enough to be walked on, or pounded down like a stale piece of meat.
I am best seeing to myself and no one else.
I am dripped dry... anemic... old and ragged...
I wanna give up... but I don't believe in answers above solutions.
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