After Working Longer Than I'll Sleep Tonight

If my outer casing were made of metal-- tin, copper, aluminum, whatever-- I would not only be empty right now, as I take the last few steps toward my third-floor flat in the Mission, but also split at the bends, at the turns, the worn twists and tired seams of my thirty-five year old body after thirteen continuous hours of running, running full-speed toward the completion, the final end of the project that's caused me to work longer and longer, later and later for the last month or so. Not to mention, the god-knows-what for my three-plus year tenure at the corporate office of this newly re-thought SF nonprofit.

Fuck, I'm so damn beat. I can't even enjoy my beer. All my joints are sore and stressed. I know, I know: fuckin' whaaa. But still.

The thing is this: I get to go back in nine short hours and do it all over again, but this time it's live. Thirteen hours of continuous performance, without any kind of rehearsal. Flying by the last threads of our proverbial pants in front of the biggest wheels at the company. Honestly, I feel like I've done a BIG part of making this damn party come off right. Not the biggest part. Jeezus, not that. That crown of thorns belongs to my boss exclusively.

And God only knows what the boss is thinking right now. Why was she still there at work with me until ten tonight? Maybe she was writing her last will and testament? Updating her resume? Finishing the report that will FINALLY get me fired? Who the fuck knows.

I gotta say though we've been working better together lately and, honestly, it's hard to get used to. I mean, I DO like being left the fuck alone while I work and I DO like simply being given the assignment, once, clearly in writing. That's been great.

But, I just don't trust it. I almost want to trust her mental-chess-playing-ass. But I know it's just another exercise in manipulation, because with this party, her job is on the line and she needs all the help she can get. There's no denying that.

I do feel real sympathy for her having to produce this whole event, basically, by herself, but I still get the feeling that she might be outie after the dust settles from this shindig, no matter how pretty the banner, the programs, the invitations, or the flowers are.

Ohhhh god. Here I am sitting at a friggin' computer, talking about work AGAIN!

If my outer skin, the one that holds me together, were truly made of thin overwrought metal, I would be split to the point where you'd just have to toss me in the cool, dark rustling plastic bag of the trashcan. With the dirty tissues and junkmail. Far, far away from work, farther away than the shrinking nine hours I have between me and tomorrow's session at work, then at the event, then after the event. Then, hopefully, back here for more of this.

Goodnight, y'all. And, dream a little dream for me.

I might just be too tired to dream it for myself tonight.