If I hear the word “leverage” one more time

I will destroy ever window on my office floor. 

I got conned into going to lunch with a coworker. I have no idea whether she likes or hates me, whether she loves me or plans my murder before she goes to bed, I have no idea if she has feelings, or is human, or is a robot, but I know she has two sons (one of whom is entering high school and has a spare and shouldn’t have a spare because he should have a full work load because that’s how many credits you should have in grade ten) and she’s been painting the doors in her house for the last two months. I know she has a dog. I know her husband just got a new job opportunity. I don’t know when she moves the corners at the ends of her mouth whether she is forming a smile or if that’s some instinctual reaction she never quite got over. I know she takes the bus, then the train.

I have no idea what “corporate” means, I have no idea what a “business case” is, I have no idea what “policy development” encompasses.

I accidentally told her something about myself because I don’t know anything about me that isn’t personal. She asked me something about what I was doing and I said I’m good at information management (I’m not). She asked me if that’s what I like and I said, hesitantly, that if I did what I loved I would be writing (nevermind I don’t write anymore). I explained I would be writing fictio—“well, not really fiction, creative non-fiction”. … “Oh, it’s like, I guess the closest thing is journalism, but that doesn’t interest me. I like real stories, told from a personal perspective, or a creative twist, not necessarily real…” Nevermind.

Fuck.

Fuck…

That admission felt more vulgar than anything I’ve ever said. Goddamn fuck.