She keeps walking in and out of the kitchen, despite being asleep...how unusual. She was sleeping when I got home, I went to the kitchen to get some work done and half an hour later she wanders in and demands to know "why can't you show me a new film?!!" I think that's what she said...it seemed a great effort to get the words out. I pressed her for an explanation, I take the quality of films I show quite seriously, but she simply turned around and walked out. Strange girl.

 I thought I liked her, thought we were getting along well enough, but it was just Stockholm Syndrome; I am livid with displeasure at the egregious behavior of my bellicose, belligerent houseguest. How a grown young woman with a nearly-fulltime job in legal services can be without a place to live is beyond me. I'm a straight shooter, but her words are like bullets, and I'm getting caught in the crossfire. She calls me the trash compactor and says I only exist to finish her leftovers. She tells me the same stories over and over and I can't say anything about it, lest I provoke her, but if I even start to touch on a subject I've brought up before, it's all, "YOU ALREADY TOLD ME THAT!! Do we HAVE to talk about this again?!" And don't even get her started on politics...but there's no need, because she's already talking about them, going on and on about "Barry" and how freakin' great "Barry" is doing. She had a revelation recently, after a long night of dissociative-induced visions; Mitt Romney appeared to her in the shape of a goat and apparently scared her straight, straight Democrat ticket this election cycle. How does such a tender, delicate flower unfurl to become an invasive weed? The answer eludes me.

Dear diary,
 I hate Gracy. More on this later.

She walks the halls for money, she don't care if it's wrong or if it's right.

 This morning, Gracy set a frying pan handle on fire while trying to make a grilled cheese sandwich. The smell of burning plastic filled the room, rotten and sharp like a vampire in the sun.

Why does my pillow smell like Cheetos???

My co-worker, Gracy, is highly proficient in what the French call "le tirade." She rants at you, artfully and at length. A frequent target of her ire is president Obama; she calls him Barack O'Vomit and pretends he's of Irish parentage, which never fails to enrage me. How quickly some people forget what the alternative was, what a vote for Obama was a vote against...the prospective post-apocalyptic wasteland of a Sarah Palin vice-presidency. It still gives me the willies, just thinking about it...whatever the president's shortcomings, he's not vice-president Palin, and that still means a lot to me.