Hello? HELLO?

I just spent four days taking care of Le Pooch at Crazy Girl and Golden Boy's house, while they were off doing fancy things in fancy places. Phone reception in their house isn't too great - you have to stand in certain spots in order for your cell phone to work. The entire time I was there, my cell phone only rang for collection companies, nobody else.

Yesterday afternoon I got a voicemail from my father, but my phone never rang when he called. Last night Crazy Girl told me she'd heard my aunt say that my parents said I never talk to them.

I called my father back this morning, and while we were on the phone I got call-waiting twice. Both times it was collection companies.

Lots of Frustrating Shit Going On

Only made more difficult by the constraints of communication methods. And of people pulling boundaries out of their asses to hide behind when they don't like being called on their shit.

Somebody please tell me how the fuck to stop being so very disappointed in society. I am a fucking asshole. There is no disputing this. It would be much easier for me to find more people who agree with that statement than to find people who disagree. So there is no way you can say my standards are too high, that I am too intelligent or anything of the sort.

Apparently I am 13, because I fucking hate everyone and everything.

::storms off, slams door so violently that entire house shakes::

There's Some Good

9am sometimes drives me nuts. All that chicken cooking he does in the morning, his inability to leave any of our three counters clean, his penchant for using enough cologne for a small army, etc.

However. I stayed in my room all day today. I've been doing that a lot lately, but today 9am actually noticed. Around 10pm I got dressed and made some eggs and toast. Wait, between the putting on of clothing and the cooking, I took the dirty frying pan out of the sink and washed it. When I first picked it up 9am looked over, asked if I needed the pan, and when I said yes, he said he'd clean it. But I was already standing there holding it, my hands were already wet with water, so I told 9am not to worry about it.

An hour or so later, siting on the couch watching tv, and 9am comes and stands a few feet away. At first I thought he was looking at the tv while standing and eating his cereal, but then sensed he was in fact looking at me.

GY: Hiya.
9am: Hello.
GY: How's it going?
9am: Good. Did you eat today?
GY: Yeah, I just ate.
9am: Are you feeling alright?
GY: Sure, thanks.

9am is somewhat self-absorbed. Dude owns two pairs of shoes, we have a no-shoes home, and he still hasn't figured out I know whether or not he's home based on what shoes are in the entryway. So 9am does not know that I don't have a job. I think he assumes that sometimes I work from home, despite the fact that legal secretaries can't do that. Or maybe he just assumes he didn't notice me the other mornings, since some mornings (when I'm temping) he sees me dressed up on the way out the door, not realizing the reality is I never left the house. He has no idea I don't have enough money for November rent. He has no idea I am deeply in debt. That my credit cards are frozen because I haven't paid them in two months. He doesn't know every time I leave the house I pray to get hit by a car and die and am beyond completely freaking out.

He does not get depression. He told me once about a girl from law school who got depressed and went to therapy. He made fun of her, and made jokes about mental illness. But I am touched he thought I was sick today and asked after me.

Grinding Halt

Despite having a post in Draft, I have no desire to write lately. Not blogs, not e-mails, not even signing my name. I'd much rather call these days, or hang out in person. If I owe you an e-mail, this is why you haven't gotten one. If I sent you a one-line email that seems rushed, this is why. I refuse to force myself to write, because the whole point is gone if I do that.

Instead, I will wait for myself. Wait until I want to catalog all the ways the universe is sending me signs of the new year. Wait until I want to detail for you the two (two!) people who fell on the bus this weekend. Wait until I have the patience to post the first part of the story about the partner who got fired.

Don't wait for me to write about things like the bail-out though, because I'm waiting until I can ask Golden Boy to explain it to me. He is one of the very few people who instinctively knows how to explain things in ways I'll understand, which is why he gets the hard questions.

I Officially Give Up

Fifteen months. That's how long I paid for COBRA. Know how many times I used it? Once, and I was actually trying to bypass it at the time. As of September 1, when I did not send in a check to pay for health insurance for this month, I have given up. I can't do it anymore. I already maxed out the credit card that has the highest limit.

I simply can not afford health insurance anymore. It just costs way too much. Pre-existing conditions be dammed. At least I'll probably be healthier now that I won't be stressing over going further and further into debt so quickly. I only had three months left of COBRA left anyway before it ran out.

I am tired. So fucking tired. I can not even tell you how many times I lied during that weekend in Florida. Where do you work? What do you do? How do you like work? I come from a very black and white family when it comes to lying. To the point that when I was a little girl, and changed my favorite color from purple to red one week, my father asked if I'd been lying last week or if I was lying this week. We're hardcore about lying. So to lie about what I do every day, for the bulk of my day, hurt me deeply.

White lies are a great invention. I'm all for lying to avoid hurting people, and lying to protect. And I lied to protect myself. Because I can not stand being asked anymore. How's the job search going? It's still going, which tells you it's not going well. How are you doing? Horribly, and it's a huge effort for me to not burst into tears and throw myself into your arms. How are you affording this? The truth is, I'm not. I'm deeply in debt, scrambling to pay minimums and rent and for food.

The truth is I wish I still had my car. The one I sold in Florida to pay for the move out here. Because that was always my back-up plan. That when I became homeless (when, never if, because I've always believed I'd ultimately fail in life, since I was a little girl) I'd move into my car. And now I have no car to move into. And it scares the shit out of me.

Percolating

I hate holding back. I always do it, yet I hate it. You know what pisses me off? That the Chinese are cheating. See, it wouldn't piss me off as much if some less powerful place were cheating. Because I'd understand. You would too. It still wouldn't be right, of course, but we'd understand.

But China is CHINA. They are strong and powerful. They are fucking workhorses. They are motivated and determined and don't need to cheat. But they are. And because of that, while once I was all, ehh, I'm not that impressed with this year's crop of Olympic gymnasts, now I'm all go Shawn Johnson.

You know what else pisses me off? Coinstar. Granted, I'm not the most popular girl around, so yes, you could say I have more time on my hands than most to sit around rolling my coins (which sounds like a euphemism but isn't). But, I used to work like 65 hours a week and even then I found time to sort and roll rather than dumping them into a machine that does it for me and then takes a percentage of that money.

Especially the people who have kids - great way to teach them about money, wouldn't you say? I can't help but wonder - are the people who claim not to have time the same people who are in debt? What did people do before things like coin-counting machines existed? They simply found the time, right?

I wonder about this. What is everyone so busy doing? Is everyone afflicted with fomo? It's all how you prioritize. People think they're so busy, but really ... maybe everyone's just busy making sure they look busy. Yesterday I worked at a desk covering three attorneys. My phone rang just once, and it was the person who signs my timecard. No mail was sent out, no pleadings were filed. Granted, this doesn't mean the attorneys were not busy. A lot gets done via e-mail these days. But they didn't need me there.

When I first started working, I felt really uncomfortable as the 21 year-old in an office full of "real" grownups, especially when they'd talk about holidays. "What are you doing for Labor Day Weekend, Green?" Nothing. "What do you have going on for the three-day weekend?" Same shit I normally have going on for two-day weekends. These people all went into the city or out to the Hamptons and had elaborate plans for meeting up with other people that necessitated shopping trips at Roosevelt Field on their lunch hours.

So much pressure to have something happening. Now when I smile and say, "Just relaxing," people are jealous and tell me about how they have to run here and there and satisfy all the different friends and family members. Though to them "relaxing" probably involves spas and nail salons and massages and wine and eating fancy food. To me "relaxing" just means reading a good library book, going for a walk, sorting the mail, and maybe getting some laundry done.

I was chatting with someone last night and at one point realized I can't remember the last time I had a crush. At some point while living in Florida, I simply stepped back from the rat race of life. I'm no longer competing with society. I stopped competing because I realized I would never win. Sometimes I forget I'm not competing, but then a homeless man will spit at my feet when I walk by and it reminds me of my place.

Blue

Last Friday I accidentally said some things to someone I shouldn't have. Not mean or hurtful things, just over-sharing things. A friend suggested some specific damage control, which I did Sunday night, but it included using the word estranged, and that makes me really sad. The person hasn't responded.*

It's not a big deal in the scheme of things - it's someone I have never been close with, I didn't hurt her feelings, I didn't ruin her life, and this won't negatively affect my life.

Except that I can't help but think she hasn't responded because she doesn't want to be involved. Which is fine. That's her right. Absolutely her right.

It just makes me sad. On multiple levels.

1. I very badly need to talk about, and talk through, some big things. And I can't. Because there is noone there to listen. As that need builds and builds like a snowball falling down a steep hill, I wind up accidentally talking about these things to people I shouldn't, which is what happened on Friday.

2. I hate that people only want to know you when life is good. Nobody ever wants to be involved when things are difficult. On one hand I understand - I don't want to get involved with people who have big problematic dramatic lives. (I do not have a big problematic dramatic life.) But on the other hand, it just sucks to be disappointed in people. Maybe I'm expecting too much, and should lower my expectations. California is so damn hippydippy, with "if you put it out there, the universe will bring it back to you." And I really, really want to believe that. So I put it out there all the time. Because I could really use it coming back to me. Only it almost never does. And that really bums me out.

3. I don't like thinking of myself as estranged from people. I don't like being unable to resolve the estrangement. I don't like the phoniness involved in pretending the estrangement is not there.

To recap. I am feeling sad. I am feeling alone. I am feeling sad about feeling alone. Which makes me feel even more sad. And it makes me sad that nobody seems to care enough to do anything to help me not be sad. Not that it's anyone else's job but my one. When I worked in downtown Fort Lauderdale, across the street from my building there was a church. It had a daycare with a yard, and a few steps leading up to the door. A homeless man was often sitting on the steps asking for change. "Change comes from within."

Some changes do. But some don't.

*I wrote the above at work this afternoon. I do that often - write at work and e-mail it to myself, and then post at home. Tonight I found that the person I'd written to had in fact written back. Her very first sentence was an emphatic apology for having taken so long, and despite not knowing me well, immediately addressed my core feelings, saying she never wanted me to have had second thoughts about the note I'd sent.

Other things were said too, and ultimately I got all teary over it. In a good way. I feel better now.

I Don't Even Like Tea

I'd had to stay late at work that night, and not just an extra 15 minutes. We're talking hours, with attorneys standing over me as we tried to get into Pacer to look up a case and then file something. When I finally got out of work it was raining and cold. I had neither an umbrella nor a hood nor a warm-enough jacket.

In high school I liked going for walks in the rain, especially when I could play November Rain on my walkman. Teenage girls like doing depressing things like that.

Now I'm an adult, don't like being depressed, and don't particularly enjoy walking through the dark and cold and rain after a long day of work. What I needed in life that night was soup, and it inspired my decision to stop at the dim sum restaurant near home.

Rain dripped down my hair and face, and my jacket and shoes were soaking. I didn't even want to walk too far into the restaurant lest I get everything wet. But even after I gestured to my wet bags the owner waived me over, so I went to place my soup order. She gave my order to a waiter and then scurried away. When she came back from the kitchen, I was still standing where she'd left me, and I watched as she pulled out a chair at a table, and placed a glass on it. She told me to sit, and pointed to the glass. I didn't want to mess up the table; I wouldn't be staying long. But I sat, and picked up the glass. It was warm tea. Not hot - it didn't burn my mouth, but warm, and as I swallowed it warmed my body.

Immediately tears were in my eyes. I don't know how people like JD Salinger do it. I don't even aim to be alone but yet I am, and it apparently affects me so much that I am moved to tears when someone sees that I am cold and wet and does something to help.

I kept sipping the tea, to drink up the feeling of being actively cared for, until my soup was ready. The owner looked over periodically to check on me, and that "being cared for" feeling overwhelmed me.

By the time my soup was brought out to me, I'd drank almost half the glass. I get all verklempt every time I think about it.

My Friend Thinks Michael DeLorenzo Is Gay. Discuss.

To say I loved this show as a little kid would be an outrageous understatement. It slammed into my chest and took my breathe away. I was six when the tv show followed the movie, and immediately fell in love. (I can not help but wonder what a shrink would say if they knew that in my imagination, at night when I was in bed, I was convinced that the kids from Fame turned into 'bad guys' who lived underneath my bed and if any part of my body went over the edge, they would grab me and drag me into their horrid world underneath my bedroom.)

I wanted to BE Coco. Never Doris Schwartz, the white jewish girl, or Julie Miller, but Coco Hernandez. Go figure. I nearly shat myself when my mother told me that the school the Fame kids went to was a real school, only a train ride away in Manhattan.

It's not that I had all the record albums. It's that I had every single song memorized. Thanks to Netflix, this weekend I watched the first ten episodes of the first season of the show. Turns out I still have all the songs memorized, from Desdemona to High Fidelity.

If you've ever done this, you may have noticed that when you are 31 and watch a show you used to watch at ages six and seven, you pick up on different things. First of all, a surprising number of the men had perms. What's up, Lee Curreri? Second of all, most of the actors actually attended high schools for the performing arts (yes, there's more than one). These days if an actor has to play the part of a soldier they go to boot camp for three weeks. Surfer? Surfing lessons for a month. Not with Fame. All the major actors on the show truly were performers.

Third, the weight. This shocked me so much last night that it's getting its own paragraph. Obviously in the Fame show, there's a hell of a lot of dancing. Thus, a lot of dancers. Sure, Coco was tall and skinny. But there were girls cast on this show in the 80's who were AVERAGE WEIGHT. It blew my mind. Not only were there average weight girls on this show (who today would be considered fat), but they were cast as average people. They weren't cast to act in "a very special episode of Blossom" about weight or eating disorders. That just never happens these days. It should, and it's really sad that it doesn't. There are parents out there now who wonder why their daughters have body image issues. They should be forced to sit down and watch a season of Fame.

Fourth, the relationship between student and teacher. I want to start out by explaining to those of you who may not have seen the show (I can't imagine anyone hasn't seen Fame; it should be required viewing) that the school was portrayed as ground-breakingly different. In real life, there was a school for the performing arts in Manhattan as far back as the 1930's, though the real LaGuardia High didn't open until 1984 (it combined two performing arts high schools). On the show, they tried to give the impression that families relocated from other parts of the country so their teenagers could attend the school. That went over my head as a little girl.

I do recall that Lydia went to a student's house to check on him. But this time around I saw that Leroy camped out on the steps to Sherwood's building when he wanted her to tutor him. She came up the street, saw him and stopped, he grinned, she grinned back and invited him in for coffee. With all our stalking and password protecting information, can you imagine the fallout if a student showed up at a teacher's house these days? I once ran into my marketing teacher outside of the Gap - it was horrifying.

Know what else I missed? The fact that Gene Anthony Ray was flamingly gay. I watch now and see the way he walked and heard the way he spoke, and it's glaringly obvious. Back then? Didn't notice a thing. He died at age 41, which breaks my heart. I saw an interview with him a few months before his death. He was completely high, stumbling around Europe, clearly unwell. To see him like that, when you know how insanely talented this guy was...

Lastly, something else that went over my head as a six year-old were the racial issues raised in the show. If you recall any other show in 1982 dealing with racism directly (that was not a documentary) please let me know.

I encourage everyone to put Fame in your Netflix queue to re-watch it. Even if you don't care about dancing. At the very least you'll be rolling on the floor at Michael DeLorenzo's perm and Leroy's white socks pulled up to the knee with the wide stripes. Never mind the short-shorts.

Let's Share With the Group!

Abby tagged me. What's funny about this is that it comes through Nicole, who I interviewed a few weeks ago during her interview series. If you want me to interview you, let me know. It's exactly as much fun as I thought it would be.

What prompted you to start blogging? I wanted to start blogging back when I moved to Florida, except that I didn't know blogging existed. Despite that, I was pretty much writing blog posts in my head a few times a week, and kept thinking "I should write this shit down!" but never did. After moving to San Francisco, I stumbled upon a blog, read for a few months, and knew I should be doing that. So I e-mailed that blogger, asked a few questions and got up and running.

Have you ever been the victim of a crime? Not one anybody has been charged with, but yes. I got in two fights in ninth grade. Maybe they weren't charged because there was no blood and no bones were broken, I don't know. Oh yeah, and I was attacked by a crazy homeless guy shortly after moving here. Also no charges, and this time I know why - because I didn't call the police. If you're wondering why, it's because I wasn't badly hurt, and also more importantly (possibly only because I wasn't badly hurt) dude was crazy. I was looking into his eyes and could see that he was not seeing me. As soon as he realized what he was doing, he backed off.

Have you ever witnessed someone else being the victim of a crime? Shortly after moving to New York (understand that I was three and a half, so my memory is from the viewpoint of a child) my parents, brother, grandparents and I were at a diner (that has since burned down) when guys with guns crashed through the glass doors and chased each other through the restaurant. No shots fired. The crimes I've witnessed have mostly been of the stealing variety - seeing people steal from stores.

What is your favorite color? Why? Green, kelly green. Because I said so.

What talent or skill would you most like to have, that you feel you do not have? God bless it, this is such a hard question. I'd like to have me, but without the learning disabilities. Can we consider not being learning disabled a skill? Because I bump into several of them each time I go to try something. I'd love to feel like I could sing (even though a singer told me I can sing), I'd love to be able to pick up other languages easily, read music, navigate, understand when people say things... I could go on and on.

If you could go back and do one thing over in your life, what would it be? Would you make a change, or do everything exactly the same? I think I'd try to panic less. When you're panicking you can't focus on anything else - it's basically a huge time-suck. A lot of times people don't have the patience, interest or time to wait for you to get over your issues, and you miss whatever they said.

Oh, and you know what else I'd do over? Years ago, I was working in midtown Manhattan, and rushing to get to Penn Station at the end of the day. I had to cut through Grand Central Station to get to Penn, and I pushed *really* hard on a revolving door to make it move fast. There was an old lady in front of me, and as I exited the revolving door, she turned to me and said, "I almost fell." I am so ashamed of what I did next. I shrugged and rushed off. I've never told anybody about this. Any time this memory from nine years ago pops into my head, a wave of shame rushes through me, and I want to (cry and) find her and apologize profusely. If I could, I'd slow down and not have made that old lady scared she was going to fall down, and I'd certainly have at the very least, apologized for scaring someone.

What do you consider your most physically attractive asset? (Hair, legs, smile, etc.) I'm supposed to say my eyes, because they're blue, but ... eh. I have great calf muscles, and a great smile. If I give you a shit-eating grin, you will not be able to resist smiling back at me.

When do you feel the most vulnerable? Umm... any time I'm not in my bed? Yeah, any time I'm in public really. Any time concentrated attention is on me. I really hate when a slew of people are looking at me. Any time I'm supposed to be learning something.

If you were a rap star, what would your stage name be? I don't know, but you know who would? Golden Boy, in an instant.

What is your favorite curse word? It's not exactly a curse word, but Cowboy and Nice Partner used to say, "God bless it!" really vehemently, and I totally dug it. It comes from Nice Partner's late father, and I should use it more. Fuck is so played out.

Use it in a sentence and tag five other bloggers you'd like to answer the same questions. God fucking bless it, I never know who to pick for these things! I want to pick people who'll actually partake in the festive meal, not just show up for the matzah balls, you know? No? That's okay, me either. Michael, Wide Lawns, Mama Nabi, Dan of [redacted], and TC of I Have Things, please consider yourselves tagged and blog accordingly. Thank you.

*I don't know why it's all in italics - I can't seem to turn it off.

Quiet

Months ago, Trixie threw a cocktail party on a Friday night. She kept telling me she'd finish cleaning up from it soon, but soon didn't come until this weekend, when she packed and moved out. Yesterday she packed and moved out. Today she came back, supposedly to clean. I see no evidence of this alleged cleaning though.

Her bathtub is dirty. The cheese that got mashed into the carpet the night of the cocktail party is still there. Luckily, the carpets are being shampooed on Wednesday, so it will finally come out.

Last night when Trixie was packing, she unplugged her telephone, and it caused me to fall offline. I told her, and my phone that had been put away was promptly plugged in, but it didn't fix the problem. I called a friend who's a semi-computer geek to ask if she could suggest any quick fixes over the phone, and we began trouble-shooting.

Trixie arranged for Old Guy to come over and fix the problem, so my friend and I hung up. I was sitting on my bedroom floor reading when I heard Trixie asking Old Guy to come over as soon as he possibly could, so she wouldn't have to listen to my bitching anymore.

Bitching. Really? I absolutely agree that Trixie has the total right to take her phone. It's hers! But when you do something that, for whatever reason, causes someone else a problem, I think it's reasonable that you fix that problem.

Old Guy showed up, and two minutes later my internet connection was restored. When I asked him what had happened, he hesitated and Trixie blushed, and he brushed me off with, "Oh, a couple of wires were crossed." I thanked him for fixing the problem so quickly, and went back in my room.

Today when I saw Trixie on my way out, she just looked at me for a second, and then went back to her "cleaning" without saying anything. And when I came back, she was gone.

And now it's quiet. Of course I'm freaked out at the idea of having to pay the rent by myself. But for right now, the quiet is beautiful. And it's not just that it's quiet. It's the happy knowledge that at no point is somebody going to unlock the door and walk in. Nobody will decide to run the noisy dishwasher at midnight. Although I have said (and still maintain) that Trixie was the best roommate I've ever had, this experience has really solidified for me that the next time I move, it's going to be to a one-bedroom. This roommate shit is not for me. It's really, really not.

Now I'll Be Famous

As a little girl, I would put on my Mickey Mouse Disco record in the living room, pretend my gymnastics coaches Ann and Joel were sitting on the couch watching me, and I'd zoom in from my hiding spot behind the dining room table to perform my little gymastics heart out to a Disney-themed floor routine. I wanted to be a gymnast with all my heart and soul. It was a time when Nadia Comanceci was still a household name, and I was going to be Nadia the Second.

I didn't really want to be famous as much as I wanted the recognition of being a great gymnast. As the sun dipped below the trees I would do handstand after handstand and cartwheel after cartwheel while my mother sat on the couch, sipping her iced Coke, giving me directions. Lock your elbows. Point your toes. Despite the fact that as far as I knew, my mother had never done a cartwheel in her life, I was convinced that with her help, she could make me perfect.

It was a long fall, complete with a crooked spine and a crash, when I realized I wasn't going to be a gymnast. To this day, I still cry when I watch the Olympics, because of how fully and totally I believed that was going to be me. And it's not.

It wasn't until I became older that I wanted to be famous. But if I looked more deeply into the reasons behind that want, it wasn't what I really wanted. What I really wanted was to be special. To be treated like I was special. To be liked. To be loved. To have other people want to be me, just as much as I wanted to be other people, anyone really, other than myself. Oh, and rich. I truly thought anyone who appeared on television must be rich. Except maybe the people who comprised the audience of Wheel of Fortune. Those people were just average. But I wanted to be rich too. Rich, and liked and admired. Actually, I wouldn't mind those things now. Except I wouldn't want to be liked because I was rich.

I'm never going to be famous. And I'm probably not going to be rich either. You're going to have to want to hang around with me because I'm introspective and listen well and will redecorate your house when you're bored of it.

This morning I read that Keifer Sutherland has to serve 48 days in jail because of drunk driving. There are tons of non-famous people who drive drunk and also have to serve jail time for it. But Keifer is rich. Really, really rich. I fail to understand why someone who's rich would EVER be driving while drunk. Keifer could hire a driver. Britney should have hired a driver a year ago.

I used to think that people who were famous must be smart, because it's so hard to claw your way to the top. Surely smarts had to play a part in it. Silly me - I didn't realize dumb luck worked for dumb people too.

I've learned a lot of truths since I thought those things. I don't think of myself as being very smart. I suppose that's why I assume that if I know something, of course everyone else will know it too. That must be the reason I'm shocked that a kid will kill people and leave a note saying "Now I'll be famous" as if that's one good thing that came out of taking people's lives. As if there's some special Famous People Heaven that's nicer than the regular one, and he'll get in there and wind up with higher thread-count linens. Never mind what he's famous for. Hey, maybe he'll live next door to John Wilkes Booth.

Being famous shouldn't be seen as a get-out-of-trouble free card, and I think it is. By both the famous and non-famous alike. Being famous shouldn't make you immune to the law. You shouldn't want to be famous just so everyone will know who you are. I don't mean to be all preachy, but what happened to people striving to be good people? To doing the right thing simply because it's the right thing to do?

Al Gore deserves to be famous, deserves to have people line up to shake his hand, to have babies thrust into his arms to kiss for good luck. He's tried to make this world a better place. He's brought awareness to the general public. Who cares that he's wooden and somewhat stiff? You know what I see when you see him not being as comfortable as Bush? I see a guy who just wants to keep his head down and do his work. And that should be fine. I don't need to think the president would make a great neighbor, or would be someone I'd like to be friends with. I just want to think they'd make a good president, would be good problem-solvers, and would represent our country well to other places.

"Now I'll be famous." Yeah, but for what? How many people even remember the name of the Virginia Tech shooter? And that was only seven months ago.

How to Torture An Introvert

Walk them around an entire law firm and introduce them to Every. Single. Person. who works there. I need a nap now. I have no more smile-and-handshaking left in me for the day. When I visualize how I feel, I see a turtle pulling its head inside its shell or a little kid who doesn't want to be talked to anymore facing a corner and putting their hands over their eyes.

P.S. To the person who asked if I had an exit interview at the last firm, no, I did not. Probably because I was a temp. Actually, even at the places where I've left on much better terms, I've never had an exit interview where I'm asked why I am leaving. At most it's "Here's your Cobra info, give us your key, off you go."