I bumped into Dawn yet again on the way home amidst my sulking over being such a push-over and amidst the regret feeling that I shoved someone against the wall today with the door.
Gazing out the FX window at the demolished buildings at Espana and fretting over my somewhat-guilty conscience, Dawn jabbed her elbow against my ribcage, jolting me upright from my weak slouching position.
“What the fuck are you sorry about?” she said, annoyed. “She deserved it for having that big fat mouth of hers that wouldn’t just settle for shit-ala-carte.”
“Believe me I would do it again if I could.”
“What are you going to do? Pick a fight?”
I sat in silence for a few minutes, deliberating over her hypothesis that seemed more suggestive than questioning.
I hate it when Fatthy (the biggest basement-dwelling moron) walks around her supposed division of the office pretending to be some big-shot boss—throwing supposedly “smart-ass” comments that make her look dumber by the word. When she orders people around, one would think that she runs the entire Department, when in truth, we are of equal ranking.
She is a slave ordering around OTHER slaves. She is a beggar ordering around other beggars.
“Maybe.” I said finally. “I’d pick a fight. Finger in the air, unaffected by rumors, the truth I don’t care.”
It wouldn’t be the fight that you would normally think.
“I intend to piss her off. Make her turn green, purple and black with anger, jealousy and insecurity of me. That’s why she’s been antagonizing me since the beginning—and I have been oblivious to her until she’s been making all these snide comments about me. I will not sulk over being hated. I shall rub it all over her hopeless, mean, sloth-sucking face when I use her negativity as a driving force to achieve something positive.”
Fatthy hates me because she’s not me.
Dawn nodded in agreement and laughed at my insanity.
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