It’s just the lack of sleep.
I download the file and open it. I blink. Then blink again. Faster. Not because my nose is still tingling, but because this isn’t the report I asked for. I exit out of the file and check the name of the attachment.
Diary Therapy Thingy.
Okay. I get that Sutton didn’t mean to send me this. Or maybe she did. Maybe it’s some kind of not-so-gentle nudge with a mockup project someone else wrote as an example of how I can get my ass back to normal. People say talking helps. Writing helps. Maybe it’s just Sutton being Sutton and being way too nice to me like she’s always been.
Her niceness, by the way, is annoying. It sets my teeth on edge because it reminds me of what a jerk hole I am and how utterly trash my general attitude is.
I read the message she sent in the body of her email. Here’s the report attached. Thanks, Sutton.
No mention of any mock diary or therapy or her calling someone to set up an appointment for me. Nothing. I’m pretty sure the report was supposed to be attached. Which means whatever I just received was sent in error.
Now I’m curious. My headache is fading into the background, and I click on the document, opening it up again.
After I scan the first few lines, I find my lips turning up into the first real smile I’ve had in a long time. God, this is good. Sutton was keeping some kind of electronic diary on her computer. Her work computer. I’m not that much of a tyrant that I don’t realize people are going to do some personal work on their work devices, and it’s okay with me as long as they’re doing their job, and Sutton has always done an amazing job. Not that I’ve ever told her. But yeah. She’s good. Really good. So no, I’m not mad that she’s keeping a journal on her work computer. She probably needs a way to destress from having to deal with me every single day.
Actually, the fact that she did is about to make my day, because the first few lines are pure gold.
Dear Electronic Diary Thingy,
Granny said I should start keeping a journal or whatever. She says it’s not only a good way to look back on the past and maybe learn a thing or two, but it’s also a good way to work out our feelings. She’s kept a diary for years. It was never my thing. I hate writing. It makes my hand hurt. But whatever. Granny has good advice, so I’m giving it a try. Don’t expect much, though. I’m just going to keep this going as a huge monologue. No dates. I don’t want dates. This isn’t about that. I don’t want it to be a record of everything I’ve done. That’s boring. I want it to be a place where I can work through thoughts. Maybe look back on it. I don’t know. I’d try meditating, but I don’t have the patience. I can’t sit still for five seconds. I can barely sit still to write this. Whatevs. I probably won’t be back.
Over and out,
A very reluctant, skeptical, doubtful, tired, and bored Sutton
I know I should stop reading. I should send this back with a promise that I didn’t read any of it and assure her everything is fine.
It’s what a good person would do.
I think we’ve already established that my goodness is dicey at best, and most people here would probably be the first to tell I put the evil into dEVIL. I can’t help it. I keep skimming along. By the fourth entry, I hit the real jackpot.
Dear Electronic Diary Thingy,
I hate my boss. Why? Why, you ask, am I capable of such burning, twisted, brutal emotions? I’m not. Not usually. But when the guy asks me to get him specific socks because the last ones I bought weren’t soft enough, what am I supposed to do? Also, who orders a gluten-free bagel and skinny soy, decaf latte? Doesn’t that DEFEAT the purpose of it all? I have been asked for both of these things. Repeatedly. And I have to go order them and stand in line and look like a huge dork when I pick them up. Other strange requests have included cauliflower pizza with vegan cheese (no, he’s not vegan. I know this because he made me order him chili with extra meat and extra spice—and FYI, I hope it burned coming out), a tuna sandwich with avocado and sprouts (extra gross!), poutine with sardines on it (like seriously, WTF?), and some weird protein powder that cost $458 a can. I think the guy’s innards are going to rot out. Just because you’re rich, do you have to eat such gross things? Not that he never orders anything good. The times he does, though, I have a small confession to make. One time I licked some of the cheese on his pizza. It looked good, and I was starving. I just needed that little bit of extra grease to get me back to the office. Oh, and what’s up with the low-fat mayo? Like why even bother? I get regular mayo every single time. So far, he hasn’t noticed. Probably because it tastes AMAZING! Shouldn’t that be a tip-off, though? You’d really think so.
Signing off for today, end of rant,
Sutton
My cheeks hurt, and I realize I’ve been grinning the entire time. I keep reading, scanning through the entries, and picking out little bits and pieces about me here and there. I can’t help myself.
Philippe Wilson is the devil.
I guess it’s
