The Quarry

Second day with melatonin – I remember when it used to help so much, but I think I’ve been away from it for too long and need to build up a good working level, or maybe I just have that much extra brain plaque to slough off.

I’m debating getting up to get my phone <=== debate’s over, I got it.

Last night I didn’t do any writing. I should have, there were things I could do. Maybe today.

I paused, and that is the antithesis of what I should be doing, I have to reread Walter Mosely’s book, to make sure that I’m getting the most out of this, or at least point myself back in the right direction. I can feel some of my self discipline slipping lately, more than it has already slipped. I blame the new job. I paused.

It’s like I can just feel my entire sexuality being sapped away when I work there. I’m not sure what it is, but it’s true. My mind wandered to one of the earlier episodes of Archer, where Lana’s boyfriend (forgot his name, just a testament to the genius of the character) finds a leather bustier in her suitcase as she’s packing for an interview, and she explains it away saying that she needs to fell “confident” during interviews. I actually handed over that excuse to my boyfriend before we had our first unsuccessful breakup way back last summer.

Oh my bod (typo but I’m keeping it) – I just referred to the boy as my boyfriend.

Will that be the death of our relationship? Now that he’s my boyfriend, instead of an affair… is this the end of all that? I know that I think fondly of him (I can’t really say love) and it’s been very interesting getting to know him. I can see that our personalities do not match at all, he’s far too insecure and it brings out the worst in me. I do know that he is beautiful, and I love feeling his skin on mine, particularly the skin right above his collarbone, warm on my cheek as we… sleep? No, I don’t sleep with other people very well.

I do know that I’m already back on my latest dating app, looking for supplementary stimulation. I guess I could have, should have, called the other dude that I have hidden in the wings, but he’s become uninteresting to me somehow. I should text him. Just to be nice. He is, in reality, better in bed than the boy, maybe, in some ways. I’m really just telling myself that right now to make myself call him. I should have done it last night.

Last night I had a dream about one of my clients. It’s complicated, I’ll try to go into detail about specific parts rather than sum up the whole thing like yesterday, but my coffee is already half done and half cold.

We met at the quarry. That should make this immediately obvious as to which client I’m talking about.

He suggested that we go back to his house, even though it is an hour away. I drove up in my car, to the white farm house nestled amidst rolling hills. It was the one across from his store I believe, thought it was situated on the lot where his house actually was. I pulled into the gravel driveway and parked.

Inside, there was a party going on. His son was there, as were several other people, and did he have a second son? They were average looking white people, dressed and acting in the way one might usually find in Vermont. One can immediately tell the natives from the New Yorkers, no matter how hard the New Yorkers try to blend in. We all look aside and let them think they’re fooling us in their brand new Eddie Bauer plaid (Carhart is reserved for New Hampshire) while they drink white wine so that their teeth don’t stain, ignoring the fat that the stuff tastes like watered down bile and causes heartburn so bad that watered down bile is the perpetual taste on the tongue for days afterward.

There were kids running around, and the house was tastefully yet festively decorated, as this man no doubt would have been able to put off.

From the breakfast nook immediately next to the front door, in a wooden booth (this indicates that it was one of his guest houses, not his actual house as the lighting would suggest) a stocky man about my age (omg) with vaguely reddish mouse brown hair looked at me and said “Hello, you must be (I can’t bring myself to say my name, either one)” in a nonchalant manner.

I don’t think that he was the only person to talk to me at the party, I did my best to mix in with the guests and even sat on the white twill couch that only a man would own.

Everyone knew who I was. He had told everyone about me.

My client disappeared upstairs, and I went up the wooden chestnut (who has the money, knowledge or taste to insist on chestnut banisters, it’s really the only admirable thing about him), and after calmly mixing around with cocktail conversation at the awkwardly early hour that farmers like to do everything while fuming behind my skull that he would land me in this situation and just expect me to sit through this for an ambiguous (is inexplicitly not a word? I should start using footnotes again) number of hours without clear commitment to my compensation1.

He is that kind of asshole, a white man who thinks that he’s exposing me to things I wouldn’t normally see and therefore I shouldn’t need to be paid, that I’m actually having fun. He’s kind of right exactly, but the point is not that it’s fun or not, the point is that I can’t *afford* to have fun. Not unless he pays for it. By taking my time like a vampire, it makes those fun things less fun because I really need to make enough money to work on even relaxing before I can worry about having fun.

There is a lot to say about that topic, and I believe I’ve found my meaning for the day.

But, my coffee is empty, and I can’t *afford* to spend all day navel gazing.

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