I am not a boss lady. During my life I have been in a position of authority as a mother, a line foreman, a teacher, and as a client.
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“You are suffering, once again, from CMS,” my husband said in response to my shouting at the cat and then bursting into tears and announcing I hated my life.
“No, I’m not,” I said, “everything’s hopeless.”
“CMS,” he said, “completed manuscript syndrome. It’s the exact way you acted with your previous contracts.”
I am very, very conflicted about social media. The irony of writing this on a social media platform is not lost on me any more than that disgusting fuck saying he totally understands all sports and then admitting he has no idea what a red card is. I liked Facebook. I wrote stuff, funny or moving stuff, and people said they liked what I wrote. I never noticed who liked anything, and if no one liked it, I didn’t care. Occasionally I attended a party, and someone would tell me something they had no business knowing, and when I asked them how, they would say, Facebook. That was a little weird, but hey, it saved time because people didn’t need to be filled in on details about my cat or son or parents or constant whining about day-to-day stuff. My husband posting unflattering pictures of me with a cheese hat or coming out of the water in a bathing suit or making weird faces was annoying but nothing I couldn’t handle by looking at some old headshots and remembering I was once quite the looker.
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