It’s me, Jane. I know, I’ve neglected you horribly, but I was on vacation. Tropical breezes, the smell of early morning sun-tan lotion, and the sound of waves rolling in and rolling out. I was at peace with the world. I had no complaints. But now, I’m back at work. I’m on a new series. And I could use a friend, and you’ve always been such a good listener. You never judge.
It’s true what everyone’s been saying behind my back, I’ve developed an attitude. I’ve gone back to my roots, The Bronx. The only borough with a preposition. Also, the only borough that can be used as an adjective. “You’re so Bronx.” “Don’t make me get Bronx on you.” These are terms I’m familiar with because whenever I’m really super-duper pissed off, my first reaction is to go Bronx. And it’s not pretty.
Right now, I’m sitting at my desk with the door closed pretending to work. I’m pretending because I’m too furious to concentrate on anything of substance. I’ve been asked to get the ungettable get. And there’s no room in the budget. Another long night. Seems to be a constant state with me these days.
The Bronx girl in me is banging down the wall of my skull and she wants out. If I let her, she’ll say a horrid curse word. And my father always told me cursing was for those with a limited vocabulary. But I swear to all that is holy in this universe, sometimes when I let out a ‘motha-fucker you all quit it,” well, it cures what’s ailing me. Sometimes I need that kind of release.
Diary, I know I really ought to curb the foul language. I’ll be better next time. I promise.