Hate how many eyes are on me on this job. Interrupted by an annoyed guy because he wants ticknow why the Wi-Fi doesn't work. I tell him that I don't know and he'd have to check with the other department because it fucking is them not me or anyone else on the premises. "whats that." I don't know look it up. It's like asking me why traffic was bad. I know the work I do doesn't matter to them so stop looking at me like I'm texting about gossip when writing in my stupid journal is probably more useful and important than wiping down any surface here. That took me out of what compelled me to write in the first place, but I will try anyway.

Thinking about the chick while I'm wiping bathroom surfaces down. Having an alternate reality play out in my head where where she finally comes back to me, and I can breathe. Asking her about other relationships, being disturbed by the thought of confirmation of these persistent invasive thoughts that have been jackhammering me for a year.

I think about my mom, how many corrupted seeds were planted in me from such a young age and how they take over my body now in ways that are so restrictive and oppressive they're no longer invisible. And when I ask for help with it, she just tells me it's my problem now, these things she gave me. She taught me chemical dependency, and many other kinds of dependency.

I wipe the bathroom surfaces, and then I self-medicate.