“can you take care of this” i already did. an hour ago. i’m the fastest secretary in the west. i am the swiftest gazelle sprinting on the field of schedules and phone calls and emails. secretariat? the triple crown record holder? that was me too. seabiscuit get fucked. turning you to glue. i redid your dumbass filing system while i was at it. fuck with me
It is the phenomenon sometimes called alienation from self. In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game. Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the spectre of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that one’s sanity becomes an object of speculation among one’s acquaintances. To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves—there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.
