Why, Mary?

This story is a work of fiction written by me, Lescrive, published here on the Black Stone Blog. This may or may not be based on non-fiction narratives; that is up to you to determine or believe- I’ll let you grapple with that. Enjoy.

 

Why, Mary?

 

I have a name but I’ll tell you later.  Whoever you are.

Today was a big clusterf*** of everything that could ever be thrown into a clusterf***.  The day went well, though.  The day went normal enough. But, only just enough.  Not enough to fuel a change of heart or to slow the beating of a heart to sleep well. It was just normal.

So, the day went normal enough. But my head was the cluster.  A little bit of that from last week, little bit of this from the week before, a pinch of something from lunch time, a spoonful of some from the daily meeting. Before I had a chance to untangle it all it just crashed into my head: Migraine.

It’s monsoon season so the rain tip tapping outside of my office window didn’t help the pulsing in my head. It was going to tear my brain to pieces. I knew this at the time. I don’t think I quite believed it on the ride home. Carpooling was a disastrous thing to be invented. It seems like an environmentally good idea. But the whole thing is warped for the claustrophobic and socially anxious demographic.  Carpooling always happens when I am the most tired: early in the morning and after work at 5 o’clock.

Jesus, aren’t these people tired, too?

“Did you see Margaret’s tights? How’d she get that snag?”

No idea.

“Roger’s tie was funny today; did it have little frogs on it?”

Dinosaurs.

“I still can’t believe I found this job, seriously, it’s so hard nowadays!”

Nowadays.

Clearly, I have some sort of disconnect with the happy frenzy happening in this vehicle. Clearly, I am in a car full of women. One shouldn’t be fooled, though. Gossip central is in the men’s restrooms, or so I hear.  I never actually have heard anything myself from the men of the department. The Restroom of Gossip is merely…gossip, as well.

It’s still raining and we have 10 more minutes before we get to my place. Yes. Present time. I always carry my trusted tablet. A highschool counselor once told me that I should carry some sort of security blanket. This tablet is the closest thing to covering my ass when I really want to blurt out some very real thoughts in a quiet room when my frustration is seeping out of my sweat glands.

So, who is engaging my sweat glands right now? Mary Mary Mary.  Dear, Mary. Please look over your shoulder for a bit.  Please read that I want you to pipe down for a minute, maybe more. Margaret’s tights are not all that interesting…unless you want Margaret’s tights.  Do you want Margaret’s tights, Mary? Is there some competition there between her snagged tights and your maroon trouser socks? Or is it not the tights at all, Mary? Are you wondering WHO snagged those tights? Which Mars Attacks version is this?

Alright, you’re not looking.  You’re too distracted talking about those damn tights, Damn it, Mary, let it go.  Everyone knows how she snagged those tights. You know. I know. He knows. I feel bad for you, actually. I can’t imagine how that feels. No, that’s fine. You keep going. Let it out.

I am not usually this hot and cold.  Usually cold. Or, so I think I am. I mean, I could pretend I am pretty well. I’m rambling. Anxiety. Carpools should be used interchangeably with deadpools: I’m going to die in here.

The rain is getting heavier but it still doesn’t drown out the rambling in here. Or maybe that’s just how I am taking everything in. Anxiety tends to heighten my senses in the wrong way at the worst times. Why can’t anxiety ever be the anti-hero? Help me out just once. Change my perspective on you. A**hole Anxiety. Get therapy.

Finally. I’m home. Have to make dinner. Until next time.

 

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