Monday, 12:00 p.m.;
My not saying anything about the previous week last week was a deliberate move to try to think about what was really happening.
I was beginning to get spooked. Getting a warning from my boss not to tread certain grounds is one thing; a journalist from another media house getting the same warning is completely creepy.
I lost myself the whole of last week in my novel. I received little feedback from reader-writers and friends I had sent the manuscript to. Their opinion is appreciated. Some of it is constructive, and it makes the book move forward, but those who wants me to change the whole plot because they think it should be different I put them in the darkest recesses of my mind (sorry dudes, and dudettes. I ain’t diverging who are the casualties).
Avoiding work all the same (I was not ready to be under the same room with my boss), I ended up working from home. I approved dailies for publication via email, thanks to Sheila for being such a darling secretary, and even send in my articles via the same media.
That’s how I ended up composing the poem for the man I have at last decided to lend him my heart for a few days (and he doesn’t know this. I hope no one stumbles on this diary and tells him). The last thing I want is an obsessed school boy crush on me by a man I know duty and service to his country comes first even if my ballooning boobs glistens like diamonds before his eyes.
This week, going to work was a must, lest I raised my boss’s pressure level to red. I doubt whether he can survive the massive attack.
I’m just in the office doing nothing but doodling. It reminds me of kindergarten. Good news is, I like it. Maybe I should be the house’s cartoonist and we fire that guy we’ve contracted from the Nation Media Group.
Forget it. I may dream of being an artist, but not a cartoonist. The Editor-in-Chief would slam all the breaks on me. I am that volatile these days, especially when I, and my friends, are poking our hyper-mascaraed noses in the wrong places.
For heaven’s sake, what could be going on? Whatever it is, I am going to find out, not matter how big fish it is. People don’t get threats from selling peanuts. It must be something big going down, and this may not be drugs or arms. Something that the church, and probably the Jewish community, is involved, must be apocalyptic, some kind of an Armageddon; especially with dad hinting that I am militant in some secret movement.
My sources are already activated scouring each and every crevice in this republic for info relating to anything connecting the church to state secrets, conspiracies and secret societies that might exist and control the world (around me).