I’ve been hustling. And I do mean hustling hard. I’ve got two side hustles going on, on top of the full-time job (which I’m actively seeking to replace with a different full-time job elsewhere – never satisfied anymore, it seems).
One is the tutoring gig, which is frankly more trouble than it’s worth at this point because of an extended commute and a low cut of the pay. But I’m committed to seeing the school year through. They’ve got another month in these parts.
Second hustle is a writing thing I’ve been doing. Fluffy SEO padding shit to trick google. (They probably think I don’t know what’s up, but it’s fairly obvious it’s all bogus to do some hardcore SEO driving. You know, bolding keywords here and there. Burying a “moneylink” in a sea of non-competing, vaguely related links. Appending exactly three license-free stock photos and one embedded YouTube video. Yeah. Fun stuff.) But you know what? I’ve decided that I don’t care. I’m not screwing over any people with the BS articles and blog posts. I’m helping to trick a search engine that tricks people anyway. And while it still leaves a bad taste in my mouth, at $15 a post…I can’t afford to linger too long on my reservations. I figure…keep this up a couple of months, and I’ll be back to salient. Quite frankly, that outweighs ethics at this point (to a reasonable extent, anyway).
What does bug me is that the hustle further stymies my own words, because damnit I’m churning out four to eight of those suckers a day on top of my day job. But I don’t know how long the little gig will last, so I’m gonna milk it for all it’s worth.
I think…I just needed to vent that. And say that, no…I’m not trying to disappear. Again. Doesn’t mean I won’t. But it’s not my intent.
One day at a time.
One day at a time.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some hustling to do.
Move across the country, leaving behind (nearly) everything you’ve ever known. Oh wait, that totally doesn’t count as adulting.
Job hunt for three months, because you refuse to settle (at least until your shekels run out).
Land a job from your shortlist of “dream” jobs…then promptly find the negatives (even though you actually kinda love the work – don’t worry. I anticipate rants aplenty.).
Commuting an hour each way, in good traffic – only taking one week to get sick to death of that aspect. To death.
Keeping your after-hours tutoring gigs because bills. Because money. Because adulting. Because your “dream job” is highly underpaid.
Become a slightly better-functioning night-owl/pseudo-insomniac and running on four hours of heavily medicated sleep-aid sleep at best.
Start adding a shot of espresso to your usual vanilla chai latte because tired as fuck, even though the taste makes you want to spew chunks.
Neglect the things you like, again, but this time with legitimate excuses (such as the schedule that has me running from 5 AM to 8-9 PM (which is usually when I finally make it back to basement)).
Get used to being abandoned by those whom once claimed they’d be by your side forever. Grow just callused enough to make it through the day, but sometimes still cry yourself to sleep at night. Whoops, that got dark. My bad.
What I meant to say was something along the lines of: being lonely as fuck. And also something else to do with that “fuck” word. I want a buddy, a companion, a partner-in-crime, a lover. I’m sick of waiting around for things that I thought were something they weren’t. And I refuse to join some dating service. So that leaves me…right here, bitching!
Hmm. I know there’s more, but I have to get back to work. I took a brief lunch break…a break from writing to write. Heh. Fuck, I’m braindead. I’ve written roughly fifty pages this week – stuff like newsletters, newspaper articles, ad blurbs, radio scripts, and now I’m about to start on blogging. I’ve helped perform interviews. I’ve assisted in ad-buying decisions and helped negotiate contract prices. I’ve improved departmental organization. And I’ve been here a week! I’m fucking tired! And pleased – with my job.
So yeah. Break’s over. Enough writing. I have writing to do!
So I get back to basement after a grueling (read: not grueling at all) day of tutoring (one whopping student). I flip on the gas fireplace and bundle up, because it’s snowing and the basement is cold as fuck. Ask my nipples. (Don’t. That’s creepy as fuck. Pretend I didn’t say that.) I go into the bedroom, flop myself down onto the bed and greet first the boys, then Lucien.
I named my iPad after the librarian in Neil Gaiman’s Sandman series. And then I promptly filled him with books, anime and games. I’ll give you one guess as to what Lucien and I get up to the most. You guessed it: I wile away the hours playing mindless games. This. Is what I’ve been doing instead of Reading. Writing. Watching. Observing. Hiking. I’ve been sleeping. Fiddling on the iPad. Facebook. Sleeping some more. Sleeping. iPad. Facebook. Sleep. Work in progress. I’m a work in progress.
After the boys abandon me to go wrestle in front of the fireplace, I cuddle up under the blankets. With Lucien. Will he fill my mind with obscure ideas and scintillating wit, as I intended him to? Oh no. Definitely not. You’ve forgotten we paired Lucien with The Stephanie. The Stephanie abuses Lucien and dims his mind with trite rounds of knock-off candy-blasting and time-management games (because she’s oh so fucking skilled at that). The idea is always: 15 minutes to wind down like this. Heh. We all know damn well it never ends up that way. The Stephanie is a work in progress.
So this fucking piece of candy didn’t go where I swear to fucking crackerjacks I told it to, and it ruined everything. My last damn turn for twenty minutes. And I blurt out into the quiet (aside from the insane racket coming from the televisions upstairs),
FUCK YOU, JIMINY CRICKET!
That is what it took to snap me out of my mindless daze. I actually sat up and shook my head. What the actual fuck? First of all, how do I come up with this shit? Second…what the fuck did Jiminy Cricket ever do to me? Or anyone, for that matter?
He goes around teaching that splintered, lying piece of driftwood about manners and morals and shit. He’s like the ultimate good guy. Pinocchio’s a lying little twatmonkey, but Jiminy Cricket?! He’s the adorable little crickety conscience, hopping about, tapping his little cane, and talking about how it’s wrong to steal and lie and cheat and gamble and all that good-for-nothin’-scoundrel, now turn-your-life-around-and-make-your-creator-proud shit.
And here I am, all FUCK YOU, JIMINY CRICKET, because I mismatched a piece of candy and my little witch can’t concoct her fakeass potion on a fakeass game that means nothing. Yeah. Take that, Jiminy Cricket! It’s a double rainbow! What does it mean!
I’ve been thinking on this a lot lately: I’m kinda disappointed that I never got detention. Okay, maybe even a bit pissed off at myself.
Part of me says I should be proud that I was covert. I mean, I did smoke cigarettes and pot at school and on campus, albeit extremely rarely. Seriously, through all schooling, college, post-grad, blah blah…definitely fewer than a dozen times. I was too afraid of being caught. (Smokes were different in college, obviously, but even that I kept to a minimum. I never wanted to be perceived as that girl. Even though, I kinda fucking was…kinda.)
The other part of me is (and always has been) sick to death of convention. And sick to death of myself for not bucking convention as much as I feel compelled to. Pot at school? No. I would have gotten a fuckton worse than detention. But there were times that I wanted to speak up in class. Stand up for something I believed in (or didn’t). I felt compelled to say something. Do something. But I forced myself to conform. I’m a non-conformist at heart (and I’m not talking about the twats who call themselves non-conformists, then gather in a group and commence to conform to their own set of rules and norms), but I force myself to adhere – often to things I don’t want to or feel I shouldn’t.
I’ve been so fucking well-trained at conformity. So fucking well-trained at tucking my head and saying “Yes, Ma’am,” and “I’m sorry, Sir.” That sometimes I fear I can’t break out of it and even tell the difference anymore: which ones are my own personal guidelines, and which ones are the ones I’ve been inculcated with? Which ones do I want to keep, and which ones do I want to dash?
A work in progress indeed.
So perhaps this sudden, “Fuck you, Jiminy Cricket!” makes a lot more sense given the things I’ve been contemplating lately.
Perhaps I’m saying “fuck you” to my own enforced pseudo-conscience and searching for my own.
Or perhaps I’m fucking insane.
Either way, at least my musings separated me from Lucien for a bit.
The ‘net runs rampant with posts about how 2016 is the most terrible year ever to be had. No, not the years of the Bubonic Plague outbreaks. Not the years of the Holocaust. Not the years of Genghis Khan’s hordes. It was 2016: the year we lost certain celebrities, the year of yet more unfortunate film adaptations and remakes, and then the year Trump became President Elect of the United States. Tragic? The latter, for sure. The former happens all the time. It’s called life. Sucks, yeah. Any loss of life is tragic for the individual and his families. But come on. The loss of my dear Leonard Cohen and isn’t enough for me to call 2016 the worst year on record.
Fine, I glossed over the Trump bit. That was intentional. I don’t wanna talk politics, but if you wanna know how I feel about him, specifically – I’ll just say – fuck that guy. And not in a fun – I wanna do you all night long kinda way. But with like a mile long, herpes-infested cucumber-up-the-ass kinda way. That opinion has nothing to do with politics, by the way. (Okay, that’s not 100% true.) But it tends to spring forth from a woman when a man tries to grab her by the pussy because he’s a slimy-ass rich celebrity who thinks he can get away with it, because he can. And is my little STD-ridden cucumber fantasy hypocritical? Yes, I’m aware. That is all.
So. That’s the Internet’s 2016. My 2016 was far less focused on celebrities, and actually far less focused on Trump that my little rantlet makes it sound. A couple of Very Important People encouraged me about how well I’d done this past year, not to mention all the encouragement I received here from the WordPress fam. But the thing is, the saying, “I’m my own worst critic” is an adage for a reason. Upon reflection, I’m thinking they were right. It was messy (isn’t life supposed to be?), but I did make progress. Sure I want it to happen faster, cleaner…Right. Fucking. Now. But that’s not how shit goes down. In my typical random fashion, here’s some shit that did go down in my 2016.
Divorce – Yep. Let’s get that one out of the way. Surprised? “Regulars” probably are. Thing is, I was separated for somewhere between 4 and 5 years. But he refused divorce, and I didn’t pursue legal channels to enforce it. So I was stuck. In so many ways, I was stuck. 2016 was the year I finally asserted myself, broke the toxic patterns that had ended our marriage and stood up for myself. It took roughly five years, but it’s now official. Now…one never marries intending for things to go down that way. We’d been a couple since I was fifteen. But if things do go sour (and they did), it’s fucking toxic to be held in limbo for so long. With the support and urging of a couple of very strong and important friends, oh and some strong doses of anxiety meds, I finally asserted myself and ended that limbo.
Therapy – I finally caved and tried therapy, after at least twenty years of decrying it as a scam. I’ve tried talk therapy as well as meds, but with all that I had going on concurrently – in addition to limited financial means – I haven’t found the right combination yet. But. I do intend to try this out again. I’m still taking Lexapro, at least until my refills from Louisiana run out (soon), and I have a handful of Xanax left. But I haven’t been able to afford new doctors yet. Hopefully, I’ll be able to get that sorted soon. So 2016 was the year I finally really began addressing my mental health.
Masturdating and Social Interaction – Along with my therapy, I also pushed myself to move beyond my boundaries. At least a bit. I took myself out to a couple of movies (Deadpool, yeah! And something with Bill Murray, because Bill Murray!). I took myself to a concert. I took myself to a poetry slam (which I haven’t told y’all about!). I took myself to Happy Hour (more than once). And I even took coworkers up on invitations a few times. I mean, this chick drank IN PUBLIC. She did not dance. She did not karaoke. (How many times does she have to say HARD LIMIT for people to get it?) But how she laughed. Oh how she laughed. 2016 was the year Stephanie hid a little less.
Quitting a Toxic – But Solid – Job & Moving Across Country – For the town I lived in, I had it made at my job. Aside from Queen Bitch, that is. But the direction things were moving in the last month or so would have had me in a new department under a brand new director with a brand new title and brand new salary. Yeah. There was no pressure at all at work. They didn’t beg me to stay or make my decision increasingly harder and more panicky each and every day. No. Not a chance. (I hope your sarcasm detectors are on and working.) Point is: Stephanie took shittons of Xanax in the last month and especially in the last two weeks in Louisiana. I met with a brand new therapist on the proverbial eve of my departure, and after an extended session, he agreed with all of my decisions. Except: he disapproved of the job I intended to accept in Oregon. It would have sapped me of my all and left me wrung out and an even greater emotional danger to myself than I already was. In the end, I agreed with him (though I had a tough time with the decision), but that has me still unemployed at the moment. I have made the move, though, and I’ve been in the Greater Portland Area since September. Newsflash: I Fucking Love Oregon. And, as yet, I have no regrets. 2016 was the year I gambled everything, turned my back on “everything I’ve ever known,” and risked staid stability to chase a dream in spite of everyone breathing down my neck what a fool I was. And I’m damn fucking proud I did.
Dispensary – Fucking right. I visited a dispensary for the first time. I’m in Oregon, dudes. What did you expect? So yeah, I got a J and a lollipot. I still have half the j left. (I may have a piss test in my near future. Yeah. Even in Oregon.) And I’m totally having the lolli if I land the job. Or at least part of the lolli, in celebration. Hm. Or maybe the other half of the j. Oh yeah! Pretty sure I’m gonna smoke it up with someone over Skype. I’ll toke over here. He’ll toke over there. It’ll be neato. Except I’ll have to find somewhere to do it, because of my “roommates.” Yeah. Remind me to tell you about them. I’m in a…weird situation. But one I’m grateful for. It’s just…fucking weird and uncomfortable sometimes. A lot of times. Anyway. Yeah. Old Stephanie never would have been brave enough to just stroll into one of those places, even though I’d have smoked whatever my friends brought out of there. I don’t see why people still think it’s such a big fucking deal. I’ve been smoking pot since…11 or so and I turned out. I still wouldn’t have gone in there. 2016 Stephanie? Dispensary-bound!
There’s probably more shit. I mean, it was a whole fucking year. But I need to get my shit ready for tomorrow. I don’t have a real job yet, but I do have a little side gig in the afternoons. Tutoring some kids on algebra and science. It’s not much, but at least it’s something for now.
I don’t do resolutions, so I ain’t making promises about writing. But when I come back, I’ll maybe tell ya about Oregon stuff. Oh! Oh! And I’ll leave you with a lovely piccy taken right here in Oregon, this very day.
So. Great progress in some ways. None at all in others. Let’s get to it, so I can get it off my chest. Kind of like the pain in the everything bra that hits the deck as soon as I get home every day. I can feel it there, driving me crazy, all fucking day. So maybe I can get some mental shit off my chest, and I’ll feel a bit of relief? Doubtful, but let’s try it anyway.
The house goes on the market tomorrow morning. Sign in the yard, MLS, Zillow, the whole nine. Well. She said Zillow usually takes three to five days to pick new listings up. But after that, it will be available for any google search. Sweet biscuits.
She said houses are selling fast in my neighborhood, but agreed with me that having only two bedrooms and one bathroom will make it harder than most to sell. That’s fine – I anticipated that from the moment I bought the place.
She offered me a full percent less on her commission than I anticipated, so I didn’t even negotiate that. I was gonna try to knock her down half a percent, but she did way better than that on her own.
She also named the exact list price I was going to suggest (I’ve been researching comps for weeks). We both know it probably won’t go for that, but it gives me room to negotiate without fearing dropping below my bottom line.
So tonight, I do the final touches: tucking stuff away in closets, mopping everything one more time, water the plants and put the hose away, clearing the back deck, tidying the storage room, etc. Then I’m gonna take a much needed superlong soak in the tub and hit the hay.
She’s meeting me at the house at 9:00 AM in the morning. She said we’ll do all the paperwork then, photograph and video everything, then go ahead and toss the sign up. Weeeeeeeee. Here we go!
Fucking sucks. Still no feedback from slowass corporate about the jobs I applied to in hopes of staying with my current company.
Still nothing but dead-ends on the couple hundred apps I’ve done thus far in my search. (That isn’t an exaggeration. If anything, it’s an underaggeration. Yeah. That’s a word now. Suck it.) Now and then, I get serious nibbles or even bites. A couple times, I’ve all but been offered jobs (talking only about ones that would pay enough to live there)…only for them to fall through at the last minute.
There’s time yet, as the house is only now being listed. But…I’m still nervous as fuck. I’m not sure what the hell I’m going to do if the house sells and I’m still stuck down here with the same shitty prospects. Do I gamble it all and drive my ass up there? Hoping employers will be far more amenable since I’m in situ? (And risk losing it ALL in the process?) Or do I sign a fucking six month lease on an apartment here and keep wiling my life away, waiting for change.
For now, I shall focus on the sale of the house, continue applying my ass off and bide my time.
Mental Health Stuff
I still wake up wishing I hadn’t. I struggle mightily with things I want and think I need, but feel they’re far from my grasp. Perhaps eternally so.
I’ve had some mopey days. I’ve had some weepy days. I’ve had times I’ve had to hide in the bathroom at work, so I could cry it out and compose myself.
I still think I’m a pointless waste of space, an inconsequential non-blip on the universe’s radar. I still wonder what the fuck the point of it all is.
I fight hard not to dwell on that, because I don’t have the answers. I know I have it better than so many do, but it doesn’t really help to know that. It doesn’t ease the pain in my soul. God, I sound like such a whiny little bitch. Yet, it’s how I feel.
I’m fighting. I’m not giving up. I’m not giving in. I’m not. But. Motherfuck, some days it all feels so fucking impossible.
So. Good things ahead. New things ahead. Things I’m nervous about. And things I’m still struggling with.
Overall. Trending upward. The trick is to keep it that way.
I’m in something of a wild mood. Do you ever have wild moods? I get them fairly regularly. Thing is, I never actually do anything about it. And I wouldn’t. But fuckin’ hell, I really want to sometimes.
Usually, these moods just translate to bouncy, snarky, playful hyperactivity. And that’s only fun if there’s someone to hang out and interact with.
And now, well. Yeah. I’m in that wild mood, and I’m thinking things I don’t talk about on the blog. So let’s just make it easy to read between the lines: it’s a good thing I’m not one of the hot chicks. Because the first thing that hit on me would have a fun night. Every now and then, I really wish I could be that girl…just for the night…or a weekend…fuck it, let’s go for a month. But I’m not that girl.
I’m ready to be off of work, but there’s another hour to go. I’m contemplating going to the pub. It would be alone, since no one really hangs. Well, there are some people hanging tonight, elsewhere, but I’m not part of that clique so that’s out. And everyone else is married with children. Yawn.
The pub sounds fun, but it doesn’t sound fun alone. So I think I’ll save my few precious coins and just go home. I can’t afford to go anyway.
I’m ready to be off of work, but I don’t want to go home. Sucks. Because I’m feelin’ like a criminal.
Breaking News Update: I’m full of shit and am not actually moving to Antarctica.
Dudes. So. The first half of my day was slow as fuck, so I made myself busy by slinging my resume at just about anything that would take it. Okay, that’s not exactly true. I’ve gotten pretty picky. Ish.
Today a few interesting things happened. Well, they were interesting to me.
One of the jobs I applied to – in the Greater Portland Area – got an instant nibble. The pay isn’t fantastic, but it’s good enough for me, for now. It’s comes fairly close to doubling what I’m making now (which is a below-market wage for what I do). So that’s pretty sweet, because I already know I can pay my bills on half that. Within minutes, homedude emailed me thanking me for my application, saying he was “impressed by [my] resume,” etc. He asked me a couple of questions, and I think I significantly erred with this one. You see, one of the questions was, “When are you planning to relocated to this area?” And I said, “August 1” (a date which is highly optimistic and contingent upon a very…very good opportunity). The fleshed out response included needing time to give my formal notice (though my current employer does know it’s coming soon), as well as needing time to actually get up there. I think that was a mistake. I think I should have said something a bit more hedgey. I like to be forthright, but there’s nothing wrong with hedging your bets a bit and letting the person know that “August 1” isn’t ironclad. I could be persuaded to move sooner. If I don’t hear from him in the next couple days, I’m planning to write to him again as a followup.
Next up – I applied for a gig in Antarctica. I shit you not, dudes. It’s some government gig, doing some research that you don’t get to know about unless you receive clearance and are accepted as a member of the team. I specifically applied to a human resources / research assistant position. It’s a year-long contract, and if you’re accepted you have to go through special psychological training in order to live in the extreme and isolated environment. Sounds fucking awesome. What an adventure, right? I could meet The Thing! Aliens! X-Files! The truth is out there! Dudes. I’ll never get it, because I’m a total long-shot. But I figured what the fuck and threw my resume at it, anyway. They wrote and asked me a couple questions, which I answered pretty much the same as the one I wrote about above.
Dudes. This one is fucking ridiculous. Right toward the end of the day, I receive an email from the top HR homie at corporate. Straight out offering me a job. Turns out he saw my resume on our intranet (it’s there, because I’m applying to other jobs with our company at locations in the PNW…which my intranet profile clearly states). Straight up offers me a job. Asks me to RELOCATE to this city for …. wait for it …. oh fuck it. For an ENTRY LEVEL accounting gig. That would have been fanfuckingtastic fifteen years ago. But this dude tells me he has an “excellent offer at our ______ office for this ______ position.” It’s entry-level, and he can see in our org chart that I’m beyond that now. He can also see in our org chart that I’m already here! And )(!*&#*$&)OIFJIOFJOI* I don’t know why, but that one really pissed me off. I think because when I first received the email, I thought it was gonna be in reference to one of the two I have my resume out on in the Portland/Vancouver area. No dice. Hmph.
Tomorrow, I will continue my quest. I’m not giving up on this. I’m not giving up on landing a gig with my company, either. That would be preferable, if the money and position were right. It’s beginning to look like I can get a higher paying gig with a better title at a different company. So long as I’m working in Corporate America, that’s the direction I need to go in to secure my future of selling all my shit and financing an adventure lifestyle. Fuckyeah.
I wasn’t gonna talk only about work. I had other stuff in mind, but it eludes me now. I have sleepy brain (YAYYYYY for sleepy!), and for some odd reason, I’m thinking about Japan. Specifically the Jigokudani Monkey Park…and the Shimanami Kaido. Yeah. Goodnight fuckers! I mean, friends! Friendly fuckers!
Okay, not really. But I really don’t wanna go to work tomorrow. That’s usually the case, especially on Sunday nights, but damnit. The feeling is especially strong tonight.
Could it be because I spent Friday marathoning Game of Thrones to get caught up, so that day and night flew by? Perhaps. (Speaking of GOT, the season finale was tonight. Hot damn was it a good one.)
Could it be because I spent Saturday (all day and most of the night) wallowing in bed, feeling sorry for my self, crying off and on? Perhaps.
Could it be because I spent most of the day today working on house stuff to get it ready for market? Plus laundry and dishes and assorted other chores? Perhaps.
Could it be because I’m feeling like a lazy bastard and am dreading Archie coming back? (She’s been off for a week for health reasons.) Perhaps.
I’d actually like to curl up in bed with a good book right now (Murakami, I’m looking at you), and read into the wee dawn hours. Yes, I said read. I think my brain is ready to read again. We shall see!
When the weekend passes by in a daze, the last thing I want to do is go to work. I feel like I haven’t had a weekend at all – do you know what I mean? I should have gone to the park (I’m sorry, you know who.). I should have gotten my bike out (uhm, again, sorry). I should have done a lot of shit. But I was in an epic wallowing funk and couldn’t snap out of it. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Semantics. I can identify some of the causes of my sadness, but I know the things I can identify aren’t enough to cause just how deep down I got. I suppose it’s just another depressive episode. S’alright. It’ll pass. They always do.
Anyway! Anyway! Guess what!
A week from tomorrow, I’m calling a realtor to finafuckingly list the house. It’s taken seven damn forevers, because I’m not the sole owner of the house. But now things are finally in place, and the place will be all tidied up and clear of almost every stitch of furniture. (Trust me, the place looks better with no furniture than staged up with what I had. Shit I’ve had since I was 17. So yeah.)
Yay! I’ll be one big step closer to moving on.
I’m also gonna spend any spare time I get at work this week on applying to new opportunities. Something may yet come through with my current employer, but I’ve put all my eggs in that basket for about a month and a half now. I need to start casting my net again, see if I can catch something other than more disappointment and headaches. Something has to give at some point.
Annnnd. That is all. I have a bit more tidying to do in the bedroom before I can actually relax enough to sleep in here. I hope y’all had a kickass weekend!
P.S. If you watch Game of Thrones, I’d love to hear your reactions from the finale, or hell the season at all. Thinking of doing a post, but I’m not sure I have enough to say for an entire post. We shall see! Without being spoilery yet, I will just say….I fucking knew it about Jon! Called it!
I’ve been off all psychiatric drugs for a while now – at least six weeks. I can’t handle the side-effects or expense anymore – and, frankly, they hadn’t really changed anything. I continued riding (fairly) high and optimistic for a while. It’s easy to begin thinking there won’t be another downswing (I had even more of them on the drugs.). But there has been. There is. These last few days have been hell.
I recognize that a lot of it is circumstantial. (Caution, whining ahead.)
I’ve come off an intense anxiety-fest over what could be wrong with my body. (Never thought in the history of ever that I’d be happy to have ulcers.) Coming off shit like that strangely and oftentimes leads to low moods for me.
I found a dead sparrow in my bedroom when I got home. It’s a complete fucking mystery. It can’t have flown in as I was leaving this morning…because I enclose the cats in the bedroom and kitchen areas before ever opening the front door. It’s not a mystery as to how it died…but how it ended up in the bedroom? Beats the hell outta me. I cried for a good half hour after finding it this evening. I also thought weird shit that I don’t even believe in – like what kind of fucked up omen is this?
My mortgage payment spiked up to $300 over what it’s always been. Because of recent historic floods, FEMA remapped my neighborhood. Fuckers. So my mortgage company kindly bought a policy for me, without consulting me. I’m not in a big fancypants house – it’s quite a bit smaller than average (that’s what she said). So I don’t understand why it’s costing so much. Needless to say, that shit wasn’t in my budget…and I’m kinda fucked if I don’t get out from under this thing soon.
The job situation has stalled out. I haven’t heard anything on the ones I applied to with my company, so I’m tossing resumes at new shit again. Got a tentative job offer today…for Colorado Springs. Dude. That’s nowhere near where I’m looking to go. I don’t want to reconsider my PNW. May have to at some point, unless I want to settle for any ole thing and continue living paycheck to paycheck. (Not something I can afford to do anymore – nor should I have to.)
These fucking headaches are the pits, and my usual go-to OTC stuff is not an option anymore. Small price to pay for not having cancer, doncha think? Can’t make a doc appointment yet, as their office is closed for vacation.
Other personal shit that is taking more of a toll on me than I realized, I think.
What else can I whine about? I don’t know. That’s more than enough for now. Suffice it to say I’ve been a tearful, moody mess for the last couple days. A lot of it is circumstantial – which sucks, really, because resolutions are kinda far off. Either way, an actual human hug would be nice. Then again, so would winning the lottery, but we can’t have everything.
Anyway, sorry. I don’t even actually want to talk about any of this shit. At all. Just needed to vent, I suppose. Not giving up. Just having a shit time of it right now.
Well, it’s B-Day. As in Butt Day or Day of the Butt. Take your pick. I think I like Day of the Butt best.
The countdown has begun. I start taking butt drugs in about twenty minutes. Seems weird to me to start prep in mid-afternoon, but I confirmed with doctor’s office yesterday and the surgical facility today. So I’ll go by the sheet of instructions I received.
Step 1: Take FOUR of these bad boys at 3:00 PM:
FYI the dose is ONE tablet. I’ll be taking four. I asked the pharmacist if I could return the rest. (I’m serious. It was a joke, but I really did ask.) She refused. Hmph.
Step 2: Beginning at 4:00 PM, I have to drink 8 oz. of buttjuice every half hour until 1/4 of the jug remains.
They said I could add Crystal Light lemonade to it, so now it looks like a jug of urine.
I’ve decided that instead of 8 oz. increments, I’m going to do 10 oz. That way my last dose will be at 8:30 PM instead of 10:00 PM. I figure very few people measure this to the exact ounce, so I should be okay with my plan. Then I have to drink the remaining THIRTY OUNCES ALL AT ONCE at 3 fucking AM.
I hope I’m able to get some sleep tonight. I have to get up at 3:00 AM to drink the last of four liters of that vile liquid fire. Then I have to be at the hospital at 5:00 AM. I hope they don’t make me wait too long. I know he has four people scheduled, but I don’t know where I am in that list.
I’m not actually stressed or worried. Honestly, I’m eager to get some answers. But that doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to my immediate future. I’m just thankful that my perspective is positive – it’s keeping me from being crippled with fear and embarrassment. Somehow, I don’t feel those things at all. It’s an absolutely shocking state of mind to me, but I’m loving the absence of worry.
I have a whole lot of life left that I intend to live as fully as possible. Things like the PNW and other assorted adventures that await require me to look after my health (which I haven’t been doing at all). So this test will give me some answers as to how best to do so going forth.