Well, so, I wanted to comment on Emma's live journal but couldn't while feeling I hadn't made at least the most basic attempt explain myself and chronic recent absenses (which for those who like the blindingly obvious stated have been sourced in massive -you wont believe this buy I have omega and whispin taped to my bathroom mirror and my hallway mirror- writers block)

So.

Sexual harassment. S'funny thing. Not in ahaha. kinda way.

The real problem is when you start to try and figure out how much of that is your fault. Sure you've been really careful the last year to make sure that no shirt shows your boobs or your ass in a way that is insufficiently dowdy (which means you kind of hate your work wardrobe). But, you also are kinda a slut outside of work. Yeah. Stop arguing. I am. I know it. Working on it. But also? when 95% or greater of the world kinda thinks it you must lend some credence.

So, when the head of sales who is probably bringing in half of the 10 million your company expects to do this year kisses you at the work party and you don't want to leave you job (OH GOD I DO NOT WANT TO LEAVE) how much of that is my fault? and what is the best way to handle it? Is "Ahahahah You're Fucking married with a kid thanks!" sufficient after his tongue has been in your mouth (unreciproated thanks)? and did he get the message because sometimes he seems to have gotten it and sometimes he still rubs your back?

Because, lets be real okay? You are the motherfucking receptionist. You know? Porn Archetype what?

Even if all your skirts go to the knee or lower and cleavage is soemthing which may or may not be happening somewhere under your shirt (I LOVE MY BOOBS Okay? I LOVE THEM and want to share them with the world). Aw, look at me trivialise the serious issue because I am incapable of dealing with it like an adult who might (sensibly) go get another job.

Grandmother? two big scares this year and counting. Cancer? Tuberculosis? Next?

No holidays til September thanks. Then. Four Days. For a transatlantic flight with ever increasing prices taxes and surcharges. We're going to pretend my mind doesn't add 'if she lasts til them' because wow! Depressing!

Speaking of Depression. Feeling of everything being overwhelming? pointlessness? general inability/desire to ever get out of bed? Check.

We won't add the dishes. Because I managed to do the dishes! Three weeks worth of clothes in that chair in the corner? Uh.

If you iron clothes in the morning when you're already fifteen minutes late for work because you can't get out of bed they're kinda like freshly washed. Right? Nevermind.

Inability to finish any book we haven't already read because of feelings of doom around every single protaganist? uh, yeah.

Ditching all fun at the last minute because just_can't_do_it ?

Being ditched by Damien, who, okay, its probably the fact his life here was totally dysfunctional, and his life there is you know, fun and coke fueled, but still? I don't take well to being dumped because I can't be 'happy' for someone where this inability to be happy for said person centers on the fact I had ONE outburst. I don't mind going down for shit I did/do, because I do stuff all the time for which I deserve to go down. But. Down for shit that I didn't do, going down for reasons NO ONE CAN EXPLAIN that bugs me. I am tarred and feathered as a bad person here, not just by Damien but by all the people who knew he was in town and knew they shouldn't tell me because Damien would be upset because of the horrid things I had done to him and no one NO ONE can tell me a single thing about what it is exactly I did. That irks me mildly. To understate.

And it combines and curdles with the deeper insecurites about my character raised by Florina earlier this year, and somewhat agitated by being sexually harassed because even when I am fully dressed it is apparent I am a slut.

Never mind I am 27 years old and 'careers' and 'relationships' are things other people seem able to do.

I'm going to what for the rest of my life? Mcdonalds?