A Quick Fix.

Doing anything every day is becoming an exhaustive and tedious exercise.
Oh how I long to return to the days of blissful freedom, echoing with a dull undertone of responsibility that I do not deem a priority.

I have to start cooking for myself. Today's breakfast was a frozen pizza with an alfredo sauce, cubed chicken, bacon, spinach and mushrooms. It sounds good in theory, but thinking of it now is making me mildy ill. Actually, it's making me more than mild, it's making me flat out sick. It's somehow managed to squirm beside Pizza Pockets and Sunny D on the, "foods that Anna will never eat again because she's vomitted them up too many times," list. Blech.
And even then, what sort of a breakfast is a fucking pizza?

Andrew came to visit yesterday.
At one o'clock, when he arrived, I was still in my cat pyjamas. I did laundry all morning and I cleaned and showered and primped and fussed over myself so I would look smart when he arrived. He of course, found me in my sleep-wear, camped out infront of the television, watching What Not to Wear and drinking hot chocolate. I even had on my fuzzy slippers. A sight of beauty to behold, I assure you.
He wanted to have sex, but when he tried to pop open the buttons on the front of my pj's I scrambled to keep my shirt closed. Since this whole stripper mess, I've relapsed into a, "I'm not hot enough because my boyfriend wants strippers" pyscho and am having serious self-image issues. I could not of course tell him this, because as it makes me feel stupid to think it, it makes me feel more stupid to admit it. So he backed off, and we didn't have sex. Instead we went shopping.

SHOPPING.

I went shopping with my boyfriend for shoes. Gross. Well, boots actually, but still gross. It wasn't as awful as I thought it would have been. I needed the boots and he calmly watched as I stratgically approached the shops in the mall, asking the clerks if they carried a size twelve. TWO STORES, out of the whole mall did and only one, had one pair of boots in an actual size twelve. Thankfully for my feet, I liked them.
So my on-sale-eighty-dollar-from-two-hundred-dollar-fabulous-suede-knee-high-boots went on Andrew's credit card and the only thing I thought was,

"I guess I have to put out now."

Is there something wrong with that?

The bad thing about staying up all day after working a night shift is that as the day grows older, your eyes become heavier and your memory becomes complete crap. So when I finally found the balls to discuss the, "I'm not pretty" matter with Andrew, I was so unbelievably tired, that all of my sussed out emotional problems fell to the side of the road for the sake of a quick fix during an emotionally charged dinner.
He didn't persue the comment the way he persued his arguement regarding the first stripper issue. He seemed more concerned than anything. He knows that my self image is badly wounded because of other ex boyfriends and the whole of my life at large, but I don't think he ever wanted to be a cause to add to that problem.
I can't remember what he said, or even what he did to make me feel at ease, but I felt better by the time we got home.

The original problem has hardly been resolved. The problem eventually got to the point where nothing else could be said and so I told him that if it was really that important for him to go, than it had to be done behind my back, because I just didn't want to know about it. I even told him to lie to me if the topic was ever raised. That makes me feel like complete shit, but what other option is there? None right now. If it bothers me so badly down the road, when we're faced with the actually event rather than a hypothetical topic of conversation, than I'll have to leave him. For now though, it seems the better option to hope that he respects how I feel and do what's best for our relationship rather than his friend's opinion of their buddy.

Cupid's a Fucking Asshole.

A couple days ago I was writing about how great it was to be in love. Today, the words, "You're holding me back." would have ruined the stupid fucking relationship. He's lucky he tacked on a continuing sentence.

Andrew's going to Las Vegas the week after the two of us go to New York with all of his buddies. I am excited for him. I know he'll have fun with all of his idiot friends, even though the ones he's going with seem to be complete assholes. I don't care though. Andrew's a grown man, and I trust him completely. There's no reason for me to worry.
But of course, the obligatory, "Please no strip clubs" comment came up and this is the conversation that persued:

"Well, if the guys are going, I gotta go."
"But Andrew, the idea of that place makes me really uncomfortable."
"Yeah, well, I don't want to go, but if my friends are going, I have to go."
"Oh."
"Yeah, it's not like I'm going to go out of my way to get them to go. I just don't want to be the guy that says he can't go because of his girlfriend."

I was so mad then, so hurt I couldn't talk. I just said I was tired and miserable and I didn't want to talk and hung up the phone. Forty minutes later, when I was so angry I couldn't sleep, I called him back.

"Andrew, I really want to yell at you right now, but I'm so tired I don't think I can."
"You're that angry?"
"Well yeah, you're telling me that you're more concerned about what your friends think of you than your girlfriend is. You're saying that you'd rather please a friendship than be concerned about the woman you love."
"It has nothing to do with making my friends happy. It's about going out and having a good time."
"WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?"

And then the world blew up.

I suppose I am still idealistic in the thought that when you are in love with someone, you would do things for them, with no thought what-so-ever. If Andrew came up to me tomorrow and said, "Look, Anna you're singing voice makes my skin crawl and my head pound. I hate it when you sing, can you please stop?" I would shut the fuck up.
It just seems to me, that when you love someone you give up the little things to make the relationship better. Apparently to Andrew, spending three hours in a strip club with his friends is too much to give up.
Eventually he relented. He said that, "If going to a strip club means not having you, I won't go." and the biggest guilt trip in the world followed.

"I'll tell the guys that I can't go 'cause my girlfriend won't let me."

There was more discussion.

He thinks that I think he's a pig and he's going there like some pervert to oogle naked women and drool over them. I think that if you're going someplace fully knowing that you're going to be aroused by another woman, it's intentional pain inflicted on me and that's enough for me to not want to be with him. But Andrew, doesn't. get. that.

IT'S NOT LIKE IT'S FUCKING ROCKET SCIENCE.

He had to go. I hung up, cried for awhile and promptly, called him again.

"Andrew, am I holding you back?"
"Yeah, I think you are. I'm really disapointed. I feel like I'm missing out on something. But if all this mess means that I'll loose you, I'd rather keep you and not go."
"But you still want to go?"
"Well yeah, I want to be there with my friends."

I told him then that sometimes I thought he wasn't in love with me. Or that whatever notions he had of love weren't the same as mine and that we maybe needed to find other people that understood our definitions of love. He disagreed.

This feeling is awful. I feel like I should be dumping him. I feel like I've become the girlfriend that he never wanted and that I'm in the way of his life. I feel like a god damned idiot.

So now, I'm sitting in my pjs, trying to figure out if I need to tell him it's over at 4:30 this morning.

I wish this conversation didn't happen. I wish Andrew wasn't so emotionally stupid. I wish naked women never existed.

Cupid's Arrow.

My life has been uneventful and so my blogger has suffered for it.

How awful that the my blog should have to suffer for it.

My job has consumed my existence and thus so, has made me a lazy sac of crap. Fucking Wal*Mart, must you rob me of all personal meaning?

It was our two year anniversary on the 15th. I think.
Andrew and I can't actually remember when we met, which isn't surprising. The circumstance under which we fell didn't allow us to remember. I don't think either one of us meant to be anything more than a one night stand. Funny, that the one night stand that I intended to be a one night stand, lasted for two years. The mysteries of love.

I thought the other day how strange it is that all my pretenses of love that I had as a teenage have fallen off.
You'd think, "Wow. Two years. I better do something nice for him." But no, I did nothing. And he did nothing. We just enjoyed eachother's company and THAT WAS NICE. Buying presents for this sort of occassion is an awful waste of my patience (and my tiny Wal*Mart paycheck - the fuckers).

We spent yesterday planning our trip to New York. That was too stressful. I'm the type of person who just wants to get it done.
What? A $150.00 hotel room that doesn't look like eight hundred rats use it as a public toilet? BOOK IT. What? A city pass that saves us a hundred dollars on all the crap that we want to see? BOOK IT. Who cares if the parking is twenty-five dollars a day, we can afford it.
He's the type to patiently pick through website after website, make fifteen hundred phone calls and patiently absorb all the information before he makes his very well educated decision (Keep in mind that the money he wasted on the phone calls, is probably going to roughly equal the amount of money we spent on parking).

So I went and slept on the bed with fielding instead.

We eventually decided on a nice hotel in the Broadway district. Thank God.
We're doing the stereotypical New York tourist bullshit like Central Park and the Empire State Building. We're going to the MOMA and on a silly two hour cruise around Manhatten. It all sounds like good fun. We even have tickets to see Wicked, the musical. Oh joyous occassions. I am excited for it all.

We spent the rest of the day asleep. I somehow managed a whopping three hours before work and was a tired goose for the rest of the night. Being sleep deprived is the worst type of disease.What a way to spend my anniversary. Should I be smiling? My soar muscles and my aching mind say no, my lovey-dovey heart says yes.

What a stupid thing, this love.

Our Diddums is Growing Up.

Learning only a tiny bit of the tedious amounts of painful patience and time consuming frustration that belong to the skill of painting has made me appreciate anything that isn't on a fast track to obliterating, mindless stardom.

I think I'm getting old because life is making me tired.

I was elated when the underground/indie scene was brought to me through the glorious internet. I was so impressed with my knowledge of Dashboard Confessionals and Bright Eyes when they still were Bright Eyes and Dashboard Confessionals. I was so cool.
Now, I am so unenthused by music and the enormous lack of effort that has simply fallen into the laps of today's musicians, that the only comfort I find in something that I once loved, is my 200 disc collection of bands I listened to in highschool - And even that is questionable.
My friend Tammy was so happy-flustered when her sister befriended the Trews that she could barely contain herself. The constant rambles of compliments that dripped out of her mouth, sticking this band on the upper echelons of talented artists amoungst the Canadian, mainstream music scene made me interested. Hearing their first single of a basic chord progression and a shitty use of a scale to replace a rift, made me un.
The truth of the matter was, Serena's band was better. They were more talented. And I suppose that could have interested me if I hadn't gotten sick of the boyfriend-band dilemma when I was sixteen. I never wanted to be a rockstar, I never wanted to be famous and I don't think it's possible to be an envious groupie. What I was interested in was the music. Now that the apparent lack of interest in learning a trade, or to master an instrument has flashed me in the face like a set of highbeams, the desire to be interested in mediocre facades is way too much work for the simplicity I've grown into.

I do not want to be mediocre at what I choose to do with my life. I will suffer through the tedious amounts of painful patience and time-consuming frustration to find my niche, but for nothing else. If it makes me happy, that's all I want. I hope there is no such thing as an IT-list of Pastry Chefs.

Everything that I once admired, the person I wanted to be, the way I wanted to look, the job I wanted to have has become nothing more than an annoying glitch that bubbles up in my memories when I see a shock-value sitcom about over-the-top, high-profile lesbians and their sexcapades.

It's nice to find your liberating individuality as a young adult, but the stereotypes that build around aging shadow a calming mindchange that becomes terribly misplaced by the fears of growing old. I suppose this is when I realise that there's always someone cooler than me.
My sister has seen it in me. She hates that I no longer jump at the chance to attend concerts or rumage through the piles of thrift store clothing, hoping to find that oldschool Zeppelin t-shirt that will place me amoungst the right crowds, the right people, the right life.
What she doesn't see is how I much I'm looking foward to decorating my first home, to planting the seeds in my first garden. To coming home to a husband, to make dinner for our family, (whatever that may be). To thrive to be normal. To take comfort in the life I've cultivated by making it cool to be uncool.

I'm tired of the struggle to be IT.

I just want to fade into the shadows of the day and enjoy being me.

The Twittering Machine.

Ooooohhhh... Repeated sneezing sucks. *sniffle*

My extended weekend was random. I can't pinpoint any part that was extraordinary or really, anything more than average, but it still seemed like a decent weekend none-the-less.

I finally applied for school at my mother's house on Friday. I've learned that my mother is a very aggressive internetter and am glad that my internetting experiences with her are very limited. I feel relieved for it.
I'm glad that now I have something to revolve around, something that is more than my shitty job at Wal*Mart. Something that makes me feel good about my life. I better fucking like being a Pastry Chef or else I'm screwed.

Dianne and I watched Return of the King on Thursday. My mom's the type of person that inserts inanely, quirky, fake comments every fifteen minutes throughout the movie. She sums up her ridiculousness with a school-girl like giggle, creating the, "Oh it's so nice to bond with my daughter in this almost teenage like sleepover scenario," which freaks me the fuck out. I can't recall any of the commentary thankfully, and I'm sure that's because I've become very good at blocking 95% of what comes out of mother's mouth.
I hate leaving Mum's house for a lot of reasons. Heat and food are generally at the top of the list, but her goodbyes are always delayed guilt trips. An expression of absolute pain wipes over her round and pathetic face that defeats the purpose of making you feel bad for her, by making you want to leave sooner. And then there's the overly-sentimental hug and the wet, sloppy kiss that for some reason always ends up in my ear, causing me to sort of eternally gag on God knows what. Her kisses are borderline romantic. I think I'm going to stop touching my mother altogether.

Andrew arrived on Saturday.
I'm always dumbfounded by the amount of food that man can pack away. At the same time, I feel a bit horrified when he orders three plates of Chineese food for himself and a little embarrassed as he slops it all around. He wonders why people have such stereotypes of "big" guys and I always recline from pointing out the obvious, he is still sensitive about it.

We were made to go to my second-cousin, Tyler's first birthday party to appease my stuck-up cousin Jen.
Jen and I have never really gotten along. We've never shared a moment, or even wanted a moment come to think of it. I hate sitting in rich houses, with rich people, pretending to be happy that their kid just turned one when I really don't give a shit. It just reminds me of how lucky my Dad's side of the family seems to be at falling into money. Or rather, how lucky my cousin seems to be with finding men to give her money to fall into.
So to revolt against my family I ate all the strawberries out of the fruit bowl and Andrew had a piece of cake the size of my face. I enoyed that immensly.

We left the party about twenty minutes after we arrived.

Andrew thinks my family is weird because we don't like being around eachother. I think his family is weird because they relish in being around eachother. He said he found it sad, and I think for the first time since we've been dating, he's finally had an incling of understanding as to how much it sucks to have a broken home.

We thought about going to a movie, but there was nothing to see. We strolled around Chapters and ended up purchasing a map to help aide our vacation plans to New York City in February and I ended up buying Lost and Mirror Mirror by Gregory Maguire. I'm too excited to read them. So far Wicked and Son of a Witch have been superb.

P.S. I hate Dean Koontz.

I also bought some lip balm. It came in a Mucha inspired tin and was fifty percent off. Best purchase ever.

He ended up staying the night, which is entirely too rare. He also tied me to the bed posts, which is entirely too much fun. We slept for most of Sunday morning, and eventually he left to get home for his Football games. I watched the Miami Ink marathon, which seriously, put excessive amounts of dew on my daisy. Those men are hot.

And, I owe, I owe. It's back to work I go.
Work fucking blew. It was awful to work at Wal*Mart before, but now after the asinine coaching, finding the motivation to work for those assholes is completely beyond me. I didn't really talk to anyone the whole night. I felt bad for it, as Josh and I had a remote email fight over his constant regard to standing me up over the weekend.

Josh stopped reading my blog. Finally, someone smart enough to remove themself from the problem. Of course this means that I'm less inclined to write about them, but I guess, not today.
I finally ended up talking to Josh near the end of the night. He hadn't said more than four words to me and I'm so sick of being the everything in our relationship, that I really didn't give a fuck if he said another.
When I did talk to him though, he said that he's been feeling miserable and that he just didn't give a fuck about anything, which is why he didn't email me.

Nice.

I understand that Josh's depression isn't about me. I'm not offended that I don't make someone miserable. That honour isn't exactly something that I strive for. Josh for some reason, is just someone that I can't let go of. He's one of those people that I probably can't do anything for, but I still want to be around because when he's happy, he's a rad guy. I guess I don't want to miss him when he wakes up from whatever it is he's stuck in.

He yelled at me today because I told him that it sucks when he says he doesn't give a fuck about anything. It hurts, especially when you're trying to be understanding and helpful. My patience is spread thin and walking away from a potential fight is difficult because I don't want to just leave him.

But maybe what I need to do is walk away.

I wish he would just tell me everything. Every last thing that is bouncing around his head that he says he can never say because he doesn't know how.

Maybe I should introduce him to crayons.

The Coaching.

It finally happened. I pissed off my powertripping boss badly enough to get in shit by the proverbial Wal*Mart man.

Fuck him.

One of the rules for running a successful Wal*Mart is to keep the products in their designated homes. Each individual UPC has a specific home located in their specific department, in their specific corner of the store. To put a UPC intentionally in the wrong place is called "stuffing." When someone intentionally stuffs a home, freight builds up in the stock room because the correct product's home is eliminated and therefore, it hangs in limbo, either waiting for the home to be emptied or waiting for the wrong freight to be sold off so it can lay claims to it's home once again.
To intentionally stuff a home, is considered a misconduct, one of which can lead to your termination as a Wal*Mart employee.

I never stuff homes.

Two months ago, my manager wanted me to stuff the pillow wall. I didn't do it. I found another way to put out the freight, which made more sense and caused no conflicting problems for the company or for my morals. He didn't seem to mind, or at least I thought he didn't seem to mind because he said nothing about it.
Just to cover my bumb, I approached the store manager and asked him this:

"I was asked to stuff the back wall with pillows tonight. Is this something that you want me to do?"
And he said,"Not under any circumstance."

Last week, I was put in Domestics with a bunch of freight that absolutely had to go out, according to my manager.
I don't mind having to deal with freight that has nowhere to go. I'm particularly good at finding homes for things that have no homes, or making room on the risers for freight that can no longer stay in the back room. It's a challenge, and since my job is not challenging in the slightest, it makes my evening a tad bit more interesting.
Unfortunately, the freight that was given to me was a crapload of pillows and of course, pillows are things that are hard to get rid of. There's limited room for them in the store and they're so akward and hard to handle, that putting them on the risers is a giant pain.
I called the support manager to see what he wanted done with them and he blankly told me, "they have to go out. Jeff said something about changing features."
As stated before, I like a challenge. What I don't like is trying to decipher cryptic directions from my manager regarding featured freight, when all the room for featured freight is taken. Giving me five boxes of the same item that cannot go on risers and cannot go back into the stock room in a department that is already full to the titts, with little to no directions is considerably annoying. Leaving it in my hands to figure out where it's supposed to go, drives me bananas. I'm paid to stock shelves, not solve problems.
I told the support manager that I didn't know what was to be done with it, and apparently neither did he and since the assistant manager was out for lunch, neither of us could ask. So I decided to wait for the manager to return, and in the meantime, stock the rest of the department to the best of my ability.

Now, it is not my job to pull freight from the bins, but the Domestics department in particular is loaded with freight and I know the DM is slowly but surely reducing that freight, and I like to help her because she is a nice lady. So, by my own accord, I pulled two boxes of Blue Whale pillows out of the bins and filled the feature display because I'm just nice like that.
When the assistant manager returned from his lunch, the support manager called him and asked what he would like to be done with the freight in Domestics and he said:

"I don't think there are any more Blue Whale pillows in the store, so put what's left on the back wall and put the featured item where the Blue Whale pillows were."

Now, I have no problem with that direction. It is logical and in the business way, makes perfect sense. But of course, by my own stupidity, I went above and beyond the call of duty and had filled the Blue Whale feature before my boss had returned and now, there were two boxes of Blue Whale pillows where other pillows had to go and that was a problem.
So the assistant manager was called again and was told that I had filled the Blue Whale feature with Blue Whale pillows and to stuff the back wall with all that freight, would cause a significant problem when the next truck came in. We proposed an extra bin in the Action Alley, the assitant manager said, "No, fill the back wall. Feature the product."
So the wheels in my head started to turn. I was annoyed with myself for filling the Blue Whale feature, but knew there had to be a way to put out all the freight without having to stuff the back wall with pillows, and there was. In fact, there were many.
The support manager and I discussed the ideas. The best solution we came up with was to move the two bins that held $18.88 comforters into one bin, and then move the Blue Whale pillows into the empty one.
I suggested it to the Assistant Manager, he said,"

We cannot do that. They are two different types of comforters."
"But Jeff, they have the same price point."
"It doesn't matter, they're not the same."

I do not claim to have a particularly strong knowledge of business oriented details, but during my year and four month employment at Wal*Mart I have picked up quite a bit in relation to the art of successful business and it seems to me that the majority of that is, common sense.
If you have programs telling your employee's to not stuff homes and that failing to follow these rules can lead to termination, do not tell them to stuff homes. If you have an employee consulting the store manager about stuffing homes, and is told to follow the company's rules, do not tell her to stuff homes. If your company highlights numerous times in their policies that associates ideas are to be listened to, listen to your employees and above all if your employee is generally concerned for the well being of the store and offers an idea that can ulitmately benefit your business, put the idea into motion.
I'm not an idiot and my ideas are not idiotic. I do not enjoy being patronized by my boss. I do not enjoy being berated like a toddler, while my boss, instead of listening to my ideas, just repeats himself while a condensending tone rings through his words.

I wasn't going to argue with my manager over this. I knew he was wrong, or perhaps the many other managers that I had worked with on the night shift were. Who am I to question Wal*Mart policy? Even though it seems to change depening on what manger I'm speaking to.

The conversation rattled on:

"Jeff, I really don't feel that it's appropriate to stuff the back wall wth pillows. Ann has been working very hard to empty her bins in the back and when the next truck comes in with the pillows that will fill that wall, there's going to be a serious freight problem in the back."
"The direction is to fill the back wall with pillows."

So I finally had enough of talking and decided to do what the Store Manager, my CBLs, other Assistant Managers and Department Managers had told me to do: Not stuff homes.

I reboxed the Blue Whale pillows that I had pulled from the back and returned them to the bins. It occured to me that two boxes of Blue Whale pillows that were already in the bins would hurt the stock room a lot less than a skid of pillows with no homes and besides, stuffing the back wall is not featuring an item, it's stuffing the back wall.
I followed the rest of the direction to the best of my ability in the time allowed. I put out as much freight as I possibly could and sent back a skid of body pillows that had absolutely nowhere to go because their feature was already stuffed to capacity. I by no way, caused the back room to fill up with freight.

Jeff didn't say anything to me for the rest of the night. He witnessed me reboxing the Blue Whale pillows, but made no intention of telling me that doing so would be a serious misconduct. As far as I was concerned, Jeff had no problem with what I was doing.

A week later, I was called into the office after my shift and was coached for failing to follow a manager's direction. I was very angry and very uncomfortable through the process. It seemed to me that the two managers that were present were pushing me into a corner, teaming up on me to make me feel weak and powerless. I fought my battle to the best of my ability, through my anger and through my frustration.
I told Jeff that I felt I wasn't properly listened to and was not given the chance to articulate the solution to the best of my ability and he just said,

"It doesn't matter, you didn't follow my direction."

There are written points on my coaching that I find more than mildly frustrating. As a result of my behaviour, I created a hostile work environment. It seems to me, that having a manager that tells his employees that we, "don't work hard enough and fast enough" and to, "mind their own business" makes for a larger hostile work environment than reboxing Blue Whale pillows.
It also occurs to me that a skid of pillows, sitting in the back room, with nowhere to go because their homes have been stuffed by another item, makes for a backroom full of stock. Two boxes of pillows in the bins does not.

But the most annoying part of my coaching was the comment my manager left in the area designated for what he would do to ensure this doesn't happen again. He wrote:

"Management will continue to listen to Associate's suggestions, but will ultimately do what's best for the store."

So in other words,

"Managment will continue to listen to Associate's suggestions, but will continue to ignore them."

By the end of the coaching, it seemed to me that I was being coached out of a matter of pride instead of the best interest of the store. I didn't sign the coaching and I will not sign it.

It's instances like this, that make it very easy for me to understand why the world hates Wal*Mart.

Happy New Years.

I'm so fucking sick.

I hate the night shift for making me more vulnerable to disease. I hate my mother for giving me this illness. I hate Wal*Mart for making me go into work tonight so I can get my holiday pay, the morally bankrupt bastards.

I hate the sicks when your throat hurts so badly you can barely swallow a pea, let alone your own saliva. Usually this sort of pain is united with aching muscles and a serious lack of energy. I know this frustration all too well, as I had it last year, at the exact same time.

Andrew's warming blanket has done me good today.

When Andrew got home from the New Years party, happy and silly from his two Colts, bottle of Champagne, six beers, two coolers, a bottle of Shlitz and some sort of banana flavoured liquour shot, he climbed into bed and lovingly whispered into my ear that he was glad I was with him this New Years. I awoke disgruntled and while I tried to hide it from my drunk boyfriend at three in the morning, he was still alert enough to notice and we had a long talk about Krista.

I felt like a bit of a bitch for it. I don't like being the girlfriend that wags her finger at her boyfriend for having friends that I don't like. It's hard to be partial to women like her, knowing that Andrew is good friends with her, and also knowing that she's a giant scumbag. I do feel justified in my disliking of her. I've met her many times and each time I left the party a little less fond of her, more so because she's a freakishly odd woman and her bulging eyes scare the shit out of me. Yes, I'm that superficial, sometimes.

Andrew squeezed me tight and assured me that him and Krista are only friends because of who she married. I guess the two of them get along as well as her and I do and while she may have the hots for Andrew, he has no such thing for her. And him telling me that was enough and that was the end of that pile of crap.

We had crazy asssex till five in the morning. My bumb is still aching from it.

I slept till fivePM the next day. We had Andrew's free-range turkey that he purchased for two twenty a pound, the crazy bastard. I think he liked it so much because it cost him so much. I didn't think it was the greatest bird in the world, but I'm spoiled. My parents are good turkey cookers.

We left for Welland right after dinner. The ride home may have been my favourite part of my time with Andrew. It's nice to be able to just talk to my boyfriend. To sit in a car with him for an hour and a half and talk about whatever. He's such a clever boy.

Despite Krista, I had an enormously fun time with Andrew's friends for New Years. I'm a bit annoyed with myself for acting like a stereotypical woman and feeding off my anger so quickly, but it's hard not to do when you're in a room full of people you don't know and you're deathly afraid of making the wrong impression.

But things always work out it seems. It's a comforting sign for the future.

The Friends.

There's this girl, that is a decent friend to Andrew. Her name is Krista. Up until just recently I didn't mind her, I thought she was sort of neat.
She is a freakishly tall and ugly looking woman with weird fashion sense and a not-so-annoying outspoken way about her. I thought that perhaps her and I would be friends. I however am very aware of the fact that if you have to try to be friends with someone, they never will be your friend.

Krista, is not someone who is ever going to be my friend.

Andrew warned me that she is a hard person to be around. She goes on moodswings that only allow you to be around her for short periods of time and during the periods of time that you can be around her, she's just flat out fucking dodgy.
During my thankfully brief moments with Krista, I felt very uncomfortable. She gives the impression that she wants Andrew for her own, or perhaps maybe considers him hers. I find this massively stupid as she is undeservingly married to an insanely hot man. She really needs to stop giving that impression to women.

She arrived at the party tonight just before midnight. She said her hello's and then strangely sat down betwixt two other girls who had just been proposed to. They admired eachother's rings, giggled and awed and any woman, with any sort of sense in her head, could easily pick out that her admiration for such activities was a massive fucking load of bull. If you don't give a shit about your friend's diamond, don't give a shit. Save the elation for a highschool drama class.
After new years was announced, she promptly sat down right in the middle of the couch so Andrew couldn't sit beside me and casually said,

"I hope you don't mind, but I'm taking Andrew's spot 'cause it's too cold by the door."

Sure, fine, NO PROBLEM. It's not like I want to sit beside my boyfriend in a room full of strangers or anything. And geeze, two bad we're sitting in the exact proximity of the door as your last arrangement. You DAFT, FUCKING WENCH, stop cock blocking me from my own FUCKING BOYFRIEND.

As the night flowed, I became increasingly more upset. Andrew as a drunk is awful. He asks girls about farting and all sorts of other absolutely disgusting activities that were absolutely embarrassing. He pulled my hair too hard, dug his fingers into my neck and wrenched it around violently so I would look him in the face. He was loud, annoying and the epitome of a fat slob and I hated it. I hated it so much.
The scales were tipped when his friend Clay blurted out,

"Y'know Anna, you weren't Gooser's (Andrew's) first pick. He wanted Krista, but she was already with Tony, so he went with you instead."

NICE ONE CLAY.

No wonder you're a fat fucking piece of shit with absolutely nothing to show for your existence.

Then there was the conversation between Andrew and Krista about the girl she fucked and how he didn't know about the rest because he was only there for that one.

THAT ONE?

You hang around with a girl you fucked? You had sex with Krista and another girl and you didn't tell me? None of it made sense.
I wish I had the balls to say something then, but I just sat and stewed in my frustration, hoping that I misunderstood the context of the comment. That fucking whore.

WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT IN FRONT OF ME?

I hate you.

I asked two of Andrew's friends to take me home early with the exscuse of tired eyes. They gladly did so, and on the way out, I overheard this conversation between Krista and Clay:

"You're all talk Clay."
"No I'm not."
"So if I offered you straight up action, you wouldn't take it."
"You're married to Tony man."
"So, he's not here right now."

And then I walked out the door, wheeling from the bountiful explosion of anger that was welling up inside me.

I don't give a shit if that girl is teasing a fat man about sex to boost her low self confidence. If I ever find out that she has said anything of that nature to my boyfriend, I will pluck her scary-large eyes out of her head with a toothpick and stuff them down her dirty throat to prevent her from being such a whore in any other relationship, including her own.
And if my boyfriend decides that sticking around to get drunk with her is a better option than going home with his tired girlfriend on New Years again, he will no longer have a girlfriend. In fact, depending on how he acts when he walks in the door, he may not have one in the morning.

It annoys me that I had such an awful New Years. The majority of Andrew's friends seem to be tactful and interesting people - I'm sorry I didn't get to talk to them. I'm glad I did get to suss out the shit ones though.