"I know I'm being used. That's okay man 'cause I like the abuse." -The Offspring

I don't think anyone sets out to find despair and chaos in relationships. No one yearns to constantly crave affection from the hand that squeezes at their throat. It's never any little girl's dream to be in love with the anxiety that comes with constant belittling and marginalization.

It wasn't mine. But today I woke up and realized that I am in an abusive relationship. I fell in love with a man who built me up like a skyscraper and then pecked away at me like his personal game of Jenga. And in true damaged fashion, I loved The Man anyway.

Because The Man is my job.

I do some freelance writing here and there and I adore it. Most of my gigs are a dream come true, but The Man was a fairy tale. At first it was the "this is new and this is awesome!" feeling that we all love. Dozens of emails in a day. Cute links and tags on Facebook. I was the new girl; The Man drooled over me, told me I was the best writer he'd ever had, and he could see a bright future for us. I was smitten. No, more than that. I got a taste of intellectual heroine and I was hooked. The first hit is always free, you know.

Slowly the emails stopped. No more blinking light on my Blackberry, but I checked obsessively anyway. Maybe my phone was broken. Maybe The Man's email was broken. Maybe the whole internet was broken and The Man was at home wanting to reach out to me just as much as I wanted him to. Yes, that was it.

I still go to networking events, but The Man has pushed me away. Gone are the nights of cuddling in the corner and pouring over our article notes. It was subtle at first, him just saying he had important people to entertain, but soon I was at the bar alone, getting beers for The Man. And who is that catching his eye? A new writer? No, it can't be. He loves me. The Man may have a wandering eye, but he always comes home to me.

I stopped getting phone calls. Now it's just the occasional freelance booty call of "hey, I know it's last minute but can you cover this?" I happily work that Wordpress the best way I know how as to please The Man. But when it's over I don't get any feedback, just a stale "thx" via text. No discussing of strengths or reworking of weaknesses. The writer's pillow talk that I ache for has vanished. I still make The Man a sandwich, but never seem to get the mustard/mayo ratio right.

If I could just write more often The Man will remember the good times. If I could just write better, if I could just stop fumbling over simple feature pieces, then he will be happy again. Happy with me. I just have to focus more, stop forgetting attachments when I send emails and learn something, fuck, anything about HTML. I can make The Man love me again. I can change him.

Emails with questions about articles go unanswered for torturous amounts of time. I have suggested topics that I can write about, just to have the chance to wow The Man like I did in the beginning. The Man answers when The Man feels like it. And the response usually ignores my question anyway.

It's probably my fault. If I weren't so needy and jealous none of this would have happened. Everyone needs space, right? Everyone should a get a second chance nine times, right?

I have a buddy who I talk to about this. He's in the Freelance Friendzone right now, helplessly watching as I go back to The Man time after time. He tells me that I deserve better and any publication would be happy to have me and let me write as much as possible. He's offered to let me write for his website, but I just can't commit. I'm hoping I can work things out with The Man. I can't just leave him. He needs me, okay?

It's not so bad with The Man, really. Every so often I get some dollars in my PayPal account or a stack of business cards, and once I got a fancy name tag with my picture on it and everything. The Man isn't disrespectful of my time, he's just busy. He's not ignoring me, he just knows best. I met his sponsors. He. Loves. Me.

I spent some time looking at old pictures and crooning along to shitty Radiohead break up jams. I wrote a text, deleted it, wrote it again four times before eventually sending "let's talk plz" and then regretting it. I called up my besties for a girls' night out but ended up crying in my martini before we could even go dancing. I scoured The Man's Facebook and Twitter pages, trying desperately to figure out where it all went wrong.

Today I realized how unhealthy this is and how much bullshit I put myself through just to see my name in print. It's not worth it. It never was. I was just so beaten down and confused by the sudden silent treatment that I craved the attention I used to get from The Man. I cannot change the Man, but I can change me. I'll find someone who really loves me, not just for my verbs but for my adjectives too. And I'm not going back. I'm nobody's Rihanna.

I'm not selling myself short, I'm just sold out.

If I were to quit my job right now I don't think anyone would miss me, save the girl I eat lunch with and the manager we get lunch for sometimes. This is not a self-deprecating twenty-something moment, just a fact. The twenty-something self-deprecation comes later. While I'm probably the most entertaining receptionist ever, I'm not very important. And one of the managers goes on a weekly tirade about how we're all expendable and she can just get rid of us all whenever she wants, so I'm half expecting to get fired every other day anyway. Which would be okay too. 

I'm not exactly sure how it started, but someone noticed that I have more than four brain cells and the ability to follow directions, so I help a few different departments when I can. It's fun, although I'm not ever exactly sure what I'm doing because I'm not an engineer and words like "splitter add" and "jumper" and "ipid" mean absolutely nothing to me. I don't know what cut sheets are. I don't understand the process of throwing switches. But you know what, I kick fucking ass at data entry.  

I know that these kinds of work orders go on this tab in The Spreadsheet. And if it has that code? It goes over here in The Spreadsheet. I spend a few hours a week updating The Spreadsheet. I respect The Spreadsheet. I fear The Spreadsheet. 

The guy I help with The Spreadsheet is arguably one of the nicest people I've ever met. He has tattoos that I refrain from asking questions about. He is probably a foot and a half taller than me. His shoulders could carry 9 bushels of apples. (I hope 9 bushels is a lot.) I think he's an MMA fighter when he's not at work creating The Spreadsheet. He once showed me pictures of a baby that I assume is his. He sent me a link to a cool Pedro the Lion song recently. And four months ago he told me to stop saying "I'm dumb" when I make a mistake. 

He told me not to sell myself short. 

Now about The Spreadsheet; the information that I put into The Spreadsheet comes from other less revered spreadsheets and a labyrinth-like website that requires ninja access and a Nancy Drew sense of urgency to figure shit out. It gets confusing. 

And today I fucked it up.    

That's not really true. Today I realized that some of the less respected spreadsheets had been sorted a certain way when they arrived in my inbox, and I should unsort them in order to see if there was anything for me hidden in those rows and columns of mysterious technical gibberish. Did I think to do this? No. I was all like "SEEMS LEGIT, NOTHING TO SEE HERE, LET'S CALL IT A DAY!"

Creator of The Spreadsheet was very gracious, saying it wasn't my fault and not to worry about it and he maybe should have unsorted everything before he gave me the inferior spreadsheets. He told me this wasn't business critical and I shouldn't be freaking out. 

Well, I excel at freaking out. And I over-zealously attempted to fix everything. So I went through the last week of emails and looked at everything and caught a few work orders I'd missed and, feeling very smug, I thought "SEEMS LEGIT, LET'S CALL IT A DAY." And off the email went. 

Then I realized I fixed last week's but didn't update today's work orders. 

Perfect. 

And then chaos ensued - a barrage of phone calls and people needing staples and shit out of the supply room, random drama with managers screaming at each other in the hallway behind me, people on break asking me if there were anymore mints for the candy dish - just chaos. 

And I finally emailed the Creator with The Final Updated Spreadsheet. And he, of course, had already fixed it himself. 

I wanted to march back to his desk, through the drafting floor and past the soda machines, silently crying the whole time in that broken but regal way, and collapse at his feet. I would look up, and seeing the Creator would unleash the sobs I had been choking back. I would breathlessly explain that I am exhausted, I am stressed about school and both of my jobs and home and my family and I'm not really this stupid, I just haven't slept in days and I drink until I pass out just so my mind will shut down for a few hours. He would hand me a tissue with his massive arm and I would finally ask about his sleeve of tattoos. 

But that's not the way it works, because I'm at work, and I'm supposed to be all grown up. Or at least not crying in people's laps. And as much as I'd love to fling myself on someone's desk (or up on a cross, apparently) and beg for mercy, it's really not that necessary. 

What I actually did was send him a message apologizing for the chaos. He said, once again, that it was fine, that I'm still learning and it's okay, and I shouldn't sell myself short. 

What's that? A minor glitch in a spreadsheet isn't the end of the world? Well for fuck's sake, I wish I would have known that earlier. 

When so many of us define ourselves by what we do and how well we do it, I think it's important not to let little mistakes turn into anxiety-ridden stress-fests like how I did earlier. I should have made the mistake, learned from it, and moved on. Instead I let it snowball and made it so much worse all because I couldn't calm down. 

So I put on my best Tony Robbins face and told myself to put on my big girl panties and deal with it. I reminded myself that I'm a goddamn member of Mensa and that utilizing some of my critical thinking skills wouldn't be such a bad idea. I'm not too smart to make mistakes, but I am too smart to let mistakes get the best of me. 

Determined to take back control and not let this keep me frustrated all day, I grabbed Lunch Girl and headed to Subway to bring back food for us and Mama Bird Manager. 

Where I promptly forgot her chips. And her straw. 

Sonofabitch. 

#3, extra pickle, homophobia on the side.

It has always been my intention not to get political here. And hopefully, this post doesn't come off that way. The only agenda I'm interested in pushing is how awesome I am, and while that sounds horrible, it's at least honest. So please, don't take this as political, read it as personal. Because that's all it ever is with me.

Whenever something really gay happens, my friends look to me for my opinion because I am half gay on my mom's side. My mom is "married" to a woman who also has kids and we call ourselves the Gay-dy Bunch because we are hilarious. I'll insert a few FAQs here because I always get questions:

     1. How long as your mom been gay? Forever. She just took a while to figure it out. She's late for everything, this was no exception. Yes, she married a man (hi, dad) and had some kids and then got a divorce and started dating ladies. I was about 8 when I figured this out.

     2. Do you like your mom's wife? Yes. I love my mother's wife. She came into the picture when I was 18 and out of the house so it's not like she helped raise me. Regardless, she is a swell lady. And for what it's worth, I love her kids too. Remember when I wrote about taking my step-brother to the zoo? That's her youngest son. Any of the problems I've had with her would have happened as a result of her being with my mother and not because of her sexual preference.

     3. Did your mom try to push her gay agenda on you? Yes. As I child I was only allowed to watch Ellen and NEVER Oprah and I wasn't allowed to play with straight kids in the neighborhood. My Barbies had to date other girl Barbies and when I asked to go to church she told me I had to stay home and practice witchcraft with her. I was home schooled to avoid learning about straight conspiracies like the moon landing and global warming. Stupid questions get stupid answers.

If you have questions about what it's like to have a gay mom, you can email me and I will answer you honestly. But back to my original point...

YOU CAN NEVER EAT AT CHICK-FIL-A AGAIN BECAUSE THEIR NUGGETS ARE FILLED WITH HOMOPHOBIC HATRED AND THE SWEET TEA IS BREWED WITH INTOLERANCE.

Haha, just kidding. GUYS, it's a chicken fucking sandwich, and it's delicious. In the midst of the most recent controversy surrounding Christ-Fil-A's President speaking out against gay marriage, I've seen all kinds of "well I'm gonna boycott the shit out of that place" type things on Facebook. And as hilarious as the memes are, I am going to tell you a secret:

Liking a post does not make you an activist. The fact that you watched the Kony video or reblogged a clever quote or pinned some picture of chicks making out doesn't make you a champion for gay rights.

I have a problem with the Chick-Fil-Gay outrage for two reasons. First, the mentality that not contributing (i.e. spending money) with the enemy is helping is false. Dick-Fil-A will make millions regardless, and they will continue to donate to Focus on the Family whether or not they swindle you out of 4 dollars (American) for a chicken sandwich. Second, there is an alarming rate of inconsistency amongst reactionary boycotters. Are you boycotting Salvation Army, Target, Best Buy or Heinz? Do you know why you 'should' be? Are you doing anything else? Protesting unfair laws or campaigning for equality in any other way? Are you writing letters to congressmen or helping to lobby for equal rights? Are you fighting discrimination against the LGBTQWERTY community? No? You just gave up the chicken caesar wrap? Well, don't be surprised when the gays don't rush to give you a rainbow sticker at the next PFLAG meeting. Did you have to google PFLAG? I rest my case.

Go volunteer at an AIDS clinic. March at Pride. Donate to charities that help gay youth. Vote on legislation that matters. Do something that will actually make a difference. The fact that you swore off waffle fries isn't going to help my moms get legally married in the state of Florida.

Related: my brother, step-brother and step-sister all work at a Chick-Fil-A. As teenagers, they are smart enough to realize that they don't need to prescribe to their company's beliefs. Making milkshakes and stocking straws doesn't mean they are standing in their mothers' way to equality. And our moms are just happy they have jobs.

Unrelated: my step-brother and step-sister are Jewish, but they thank Chick-Fil-A for the Sundays off.