My supervisor’s habit of reassuring my unforgettableness (is that even a word?) sometimes fails at its task. “It’s not that I forgot about you,” she starts most of these conversations. I don’t blame her for forgetting my existence. I keep to myself. I shelve my books. I read my shelves. I weed books. I take down suggestions. It’s my god complex, I think. If you do things right, people aren’t sure if you do anything at all.

“Keep your personal lives at the door,” she suggests to us during our department meeting. Keeping my personal life out of work is what I do best. If I didn’t, then I’d have people speaking in whispers about my failed relationship. And while I don’t really care two shits about their thoughts about me, I have to work with this people in a civil manner. How long I can take this charade up is another thing. The only person who knows is Angela, but I trust her more than I allowed myself to trust the others (they only get part of the story).

As far as bosses go, I’ve only trusted one. Doug, at the ballpark, has/has my back. Even when the whole Javi business, he made sure that no one screwed me over. I don’t get that vibe from this job, which depresses me.

We go over rules. Button up shirts must be tucked (check on that one, except my blue work shirt that untucks itself whenever I, you know, work). We mustn’t go into work disheveled (fat chance on that one, you all should be happy that I manage to pull myself out of bed).

Everyone puts in their comments and questions, but I remain silent as is my wont. Mike insists I say something, so I add in that I’m jealous of Ruben’s beard (which is a half truth, as I envy those who have the ability to grow facial hair and not look like a pedophile). Meeting adjourned. We leave and I clock out. A ball of depression awaits for me in the pit of my stomach.

I have so much to talk about, but I leave it all at the door.