Gah

This week was the week from hell.

Literally.

If my hormones weren’t tripping on their own drugs, it might have been better. Got into a fight with Nancy Boy. He says I attacked him first because I dropped the f-bomb. Yeah, me. I told him to shut the fuck up because of what he said to me/bitched at me.

Alright, the story. Went to site in the morning on the day I’m suppose too. I wasn’t out there all last week due to being out of town on a drill job. I was trying to figure out what happened with the samples and then figured out that he redid work that he didn’t have to do. He got mad at me about this and the statement that led me to telling him the above was, “Kristina, show a little effort.” I’m sorry, what? I work my ass off. I show up on time or earlier to work, I always call when I’m running late, I don’t put other people down or treat them in a belittling manner.

I told him he has my cell number, he or TS could have easily called me about my samples. It’s not my fault that he has the memory of a fish.

Let’s not forget that I’m having hormone issues this week that one minute want me to be a giant and eat the little people around me and the second sees me crying uncontrollably.

Joe has been feeling some of the effects of this week. Like the above sent me home early and crying at lunch time because of how upset I was. I had a lot on my plate… I still have a lot on my plate. The stress was getting to me. I broke down twice more from thinking about it all. And then I had to go manage another project, which robbed me of most of my saturday. It’s just work that’s stressful, it’s personal life too.

My father, yes, he’s no longer dad to me currently, my father has decided that if I proceed with something I want to do for my wedding, that he’s going to disown me. I found this out through my sister, who’s my maid of honor. I simply wanted my father to be selfless. Big whooping dream. Because he holds a bitter grudge that is 9 years old, he can’t do it. He has no room in his vocabulary for forgiveness, tolerance, my day. That’s what sticks the most. It’s my day. Not his. Not smo-bo down the streets. It’s my DAY.

I told my sister, I thought he was cowardly for not telling this to my face (or over the phone, which ever way you look at it). I haven’t heard from him in 2 weeks.

Well, I’m going to end this now. I still have a list to get through before this 3 day weekend is up.