Barely spoke to Stacey on the way in. I didn't care enough to ask about her weekend, absorbed as I was in myself. She didn't bother, either, beyond the usual insert-name-here stuff. She didn't want to know, and I don't blame her. As with everything else in my life, I am distilling friendship down to the essential, applying my usual rigid standards and finding everyone wanting. I lowered my standards of friendship over the summer and got a shiv betwen the shoulder blades.
On the way home I apologized to Stacey for being uncommunicative. "Ever since Chris..." (I wanted to say "stabbed me in the back") "did what he did I've been considering what a friend really is. Frankly, youi let me down. You just weren't really there for me." To be fair, though--and Stacey reminded me of this--she had been out of town when all this went down. When she got back all she was hearing was gossip, she said, so she decided it was best to "remain neutral." Chris tried to plead his case with her, and she told him she was going to stay out of it rather than choose between us. Of course, the main purveyors of the gossip were B and M. Of them, Stacey said, "Once you step into their world, it would be too easy to sink to their level." It was nice to finally know what was going on with Stacey through all this mess, and I am ashamed of thinking much worse of her character, but I would have felt a bit less alone if I'd known then where she'd stood in the midst of it.
Though Julie seemed only slightly less ubiquitous today than Friday, I dealt with her a lot better. We had a desk hour together and didn't speak. She relieved me at backup but I just moved to the terminal next door and continued discharging to help with the heavy courier load--another hour without a a word exchanged. I probably wouldn't have stuck around that second hour if anyone else had relieved me; I was forcing my resolve to ignore her. It's the only way I'll ever get used to working with her. How could she care now if she never cared before? This is the only faking I'm doing on my way to making it: pretending I don't care about her or how much attention she gives me. I'm not faking any nice guy crap. It twists my stomach to even think of the effort of an insincere smile. Tammy's back, but I didn't get a chance to talk to her. It doesn't amtter how well I pretend to adjust--I want out.
It wasn't all that long ago that I would race home to suck down some dinner and caffeine and race to my desk. Sometimes I'd get to bed only a few hours before I had to get up again. I was groggy at work, but it was worth it. Now, all I've got is the groggy at work, and what did I do to deserve that but go to bed at ninie-thirty. I still get little sleep, not for a feverish writing production, not for a feverish writing production, but for a shitty sleep*.
*This is where I fell asleep--around eight-thirty.
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