There's this couple I know that I really like. They are so sweet and wonderful that I just love them and seeing them together because they are so happy. At the same time? I fucking hate them because they are so happy. I used to be happy... I think? Whenever I see them together it's a dagger in my chest reminding me of everything I have lost. I want them to endure forever because they are so good together. I just can't handle being around that much joy. Only manages to make me depressed. How fucked up is that?
Some new consultant started at the client I am working at right now. He doesn't seem to be working on the same stuff we are, but who knows. Clients fuck around with firms like us all the time where they bring in two different companies to work on the same things. It's a shitty practice, but I have done it myself and can't judge. Anyway, the reason I bring this guy up is that he reminded me of a slimy Paul Allen. You know Paul Allen, the bane of Patrick Bateman's existence? The one who should have been the catharsis, the exit, but in the end was no more a person than Patrick himself. This guy has the 80s wall street look to a T just with this added level of sleaze. A perfect Paul Allen. The blue Ralph Lauren shirt, the tightly pressed flat front slacks, couldn't see his shoes (but not for lack of trying, wingtip, laces), the red power tie (Brooks Brothers?), even the glasses which I would bet aren't even fucking prescription. I bet they're nothing more than plain fucking lenses. Asshole. I find an overwhelming desire looking at this son of a bitch yesterday to shove an axe through his face for no other reason than he was there.
It's raining. It rained yesterday. Probably rain all day.
Ate the second cornish game hen I made the other day for dinner last night. Cleaned the upholstery on one of the chairs last night because boredom was taking over. Watched three episodes of Eureka. Bed.
Life. There it is.
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