which, of course, signified absolutely nothing. I refer, of course, to the much-feared meeting with Irksome, in which I had vowed to do the sayonara bit. And, of course, I did no such thing. Oops. Instead, we had a lovely, nonsensical chat for about an hour, and as he turned to leave, I (apparently channeling Mandy Moore) turned and yelled "wait, don't go!" yes, I'm embarrassed. Anyway, he walked back over and I explained that I had in fact asked him to meet so that I could be angry with him. (For future reference: this approach has an adverse effect on one's credibility, as it causes one to appear, um, deranged.) To give him due credit, he took that annoucement rather well and found a place for us to sit so I could explain at length the source of such anger.
And if I was less bad at relationship-y, emotional-feeling-bla-bla stuff , I would a) have been able to actually give him some kind of clear statement of facts and feelings that would allow an actual concrete resolution of my problems (which leads to the question, is there such a thing, and the answer, no); and b) be able to now give a better explanation as to what exactly happened. But, as it stands, I can't, and the best I can do is say that we had a less-nonsensical-than-before chat and I now feel like I can just be myself with him. And I feel a little less strongly about the "he sucks" platform. So, it's good. Thank you, all the same, to LA Lawyer and my face-to-face friends for the encouragement to cut him loose -- but, like the song says, "listen to your heart before you tell him goodbye." Mine said "NOoooooOoooo!" So, yeah. Perhaps I'm weak, perhaps I should be more demanding, perhaps I'll be back here in a week more firmly convinced of his suck-age than ever before -- but for now, we're good. I'm good. And, I have not one but two best friends coming to visit in about five hours and much vodka will be consumed. And, there, I am the best of all.
(In other news, just to let y'all know, if I don't post again, it's because my secretary has killed me and buried the body far far away. Apparently, when I think I'm being nice by doing as much of my own copying, filing, etc. as I can, it's making her nuts. Earlier this afternoon, she walked by me in the mailroom to find me postage-ing my own mail (there must be a better verb for that) and I swear, the thought bubble over her head was something like "Must. Kill. Now." Good lord -- who would have thought that being helpful was so infuriating? Then again, it probably has something to do with job security, and I actually am be unhelpful? Offices are confusing.)
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