June 2nd
June 6th
June 9th
June 12th

Sound; Holly Hobby bought me a Special's cd for my birthday... talk about a throw back.

Sight; Work.
Taste; Coffee.

June 14, 2000
Maggie's Farm.

I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more. I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more. Well I wake up in the morning fall on my hands and pray for rain. I got a headful of ideas and they're driving me insane.
It's a shame the way she makes me scrub the floor. I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more. I ain't gonna work for Maggie's brother no more. I ain't gonna work for Maggie's brother no more. Well he throws you a penny and he thinks that he's so kind. He asks you with a grin if you're having a good time.
I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more.

Whatever it is that is holding me in my seat, rendering me unable to run screaming from this artificially lit building, leaving trails of paperwork, a ringing phone, middle management clamoring behind me...their monotonous drone rising in volume behind me, "We are your first priority, we are the your first priority, join ussssssssssssssssssss!" Whatever it is holding me, it's pretty damned strong. I'm afraid I know what it is, but if I name it outloud I'd be ashamed of myself. It's green, crawling with germs, and gets you what you need.

Oh, but this is not me! This is not me.

I was built to live off the land and say thing like, "Well, I don't have me much book learnin', but at least I'm mah own person." Digging my toes into red Georgia clay and wiping my flour covered hands on my apron. "Jasper, Dylan, Duncan, Suzy, Raymond, John, Jacob, Jessup, y'all come getcher supper before yer Daddy wears out yer hides!"

I was built to spend my days lounging on silk sheets, my only worry in life being pleasing my man when he gets off work from a hard day of mergers and hostile takeovers. I'd loosen his tie after he handed his briefcase to the manservant, reciting the menu I'd arranged the kitchen staff to have prepared. He'd smile and give me a small possessive pat on the behind while he sat heavily into his chair, handstitched leather crafted by a poor Guatemalan family that had driven itself blind from the tiny stitching. I could live with blinders on. People do it every day.

Instead I am a drone. A worker bee. Not a very good one either. I forget to wear deodorant to work one day out of ninety. I suck my coffee down and nod. I uselessly tap my ashes while taking my eighth cigarette break of the day. I check my counter, run a report. I make management's copies, I scratch my ass. I track costs and calculate which vendor is the most cost effective while I send out voodoo messages to my readers for email to distract me. I recite my mantra... "jeans everyday, leave at 3:30, goooooooooood benefitttttttttttttttttttttts."

Yesterday with shaking hands I applied the chemical sun, Neutrogena Light Medium sunless tanner, to my legs. Plenty of Curel, the best after tattoo moisturizer, to evenly spread the false tan across my knees. I stood there wearing my period underwear, in case of staining, in my bathtub looking like a fool. The blinds were tightly shut just in case. I had never done this before. Would it burn? Leave streaks? Mar my unborn children's double helix so that I'd later give birth to a shrieking, orange, afterbirth covered, newborn George Hamilton? Luckily I did it correctly, my legs are just tan enough not to be transparent.

Why did I do this? Because silly, the company party is this Friday. While I will not be joining others in the potentially ecoli tinged water park, I will be wearing shorts because it's hotter than a June bride riding bareback through the seventh ring of Hell in Atlanta right now.

God. Pressure. Just last week I could pull up my counter and recognize each person by ISP. I'm baffled, completely. It's not like I want to bake cookies and entertain each person as an individual, it's just overwhelming. Do I need to pay more attention to what I'm writing? Be more articulate? Use more colorful adjectives? Quit cursing so much? Curse more? I know, none of that is relative. But I have to admit to the slight quake in my boots before sitting down and typing. Holly Hobby's guest entry was perfectly timed in this regard.

Pita's already in heat again, the little whore. Rubbing her ass against anything she can and yowling "Pussy! Come and get it! Free Pussy!"

I told my mother about my page last night, as my birthday present to her, but didn't give her the url. She isn't allowed to see it until I've sat with her and walked her through it. She has two phonelines so it shouldn't be a problem. She'll be reading this as well soon enough. If you don't tell her about the Kool-Aid enemas, I won't.

I'm debating on whether or not I should go buy the bathing suit I tried on two weeks ago when I get off work (which is in a half hour so I better hurry this shit up and get my notify letter out). I'd have to go get money from Adam first though. It's army green, very high cut in the breast and low cut on the thighs. Very alluring, very forgiving, I think I could wear it around acquaintances without too much to go over in therapy years from now. And yes, it's from Target. Shut up. I want new shoes too...and a sarong and a hair clip and nail polish and new earrings and a Malibu Barbie and an Easy Bake Oven and a Lite Brite and Wet Willy and a Big Wheel, please can I, huh Adam puleease? I'll be good!

It's humiliating to go ask him for money. We do what we must to purchase what we just have to buy.

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