Is this some kind of joke? I have done my job. I have done the things I’m supposed to do. I have stayed in good humor through everything. Everything. And I’ve made efforts to correct the mistakes I’ve made. So is there something else the Universe needs me to do? To realize?
Because my sister told me that when the world is just throwing shit at you, giving you nothing but bad news, and kicking you while you’re down, it’s ultimately just to make you laugh. Like when things get so bad, that you get a new perspective, just for having lived through it. You get so far down, that you just have to throw up your hands and go, “Really?….Really.”
It’s my fucking birthday. And the Universe is just… stepping on my neck. I walked in the door and finally started crying. It’s been four months, two weeks, and five days. I have hit the limit. Happy birthday to me. Hooray for being twenty-eight.
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Definitely, must:
= a drum set
= a dog
= a piano
= a decent stereo and speakers
edit: Add a Snoogle in for me.
A decent amount of my time is spent dwelling on that first set of four five up there. Shopping, and looking, and wishing for them. And space to have them. And privacy. And a deed to property.
Someday:
+ some oversized piece of artwork I love
+ some big area rug I can’t live without
Tonight, I’ve spent a long time, lying in bed, listening to Bonobo, and looking things up, shopping, bookmarking, and working. It’s a beautiful night here–55 degrees, really quiet, I love my bedroom. I also just bought 4 pairs of shoes at buy one get one. yay..
Inevitably, probably:
- a car, dear god, a car that works
- these adorable yellow wedge loafers, which I can’t find anywhere (aren’t they gorgeous? ugh, I know)
- distressed leather work bag, with two thousand scratches in the dark skin that remind you of all the crossroads and train stations through which you’ve carried yourself, and that tote.
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You can either sit around wondering what people think of you, or you can go live your life.
Seriously. You miss so much when you get wrapped up in the opinions that ultimately don’t change anything. It really bakes my biscuits.
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We end up laughing to tears together on the phone again. We always seem to. But this time, before he can hang up, I hear him sound relieved to be getting off the line.
For the first time, maybe ever, I realize how sad I will be when he doesn’t love me anymore. When he doesn’t want me, and won’t be there when I text or call. When he finds his next leading woman, and stops waiting for us to work out.
For the last time, maybe ever, I convince myself again it would never work out. I clear the evidence of the conversation from my phone. I put the phone on the bedside table, turn out the light, and turn towards the place where I expected sleep to be.
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As the owner of a thriving addictive personality disorder, I’ve been trying to find ways to steer my habits for a while. It’s kind of like trying to get a beat-up boat to float upriver, in a totally ice-locked sea of fail. By getting out and pushing from behind.
One thing I’ve had marginal success with is messing with my own head. If I do too much of any one thing, I suddenly don’t want it anymore. Or even better, if I make believe that it’s better for me to have a bad habit, the 4-yr-old snotball little kid in me stops wanting it. This has worked with things like staying up late. Or eating pizza all the time. And smoking!
However. This method has failed miserably in the work ethic department. In the battle of sleep versus work, sleep has won more battles these last couple of weeks, more than ever before. I just want to stay under the covers in my delicious bed. Maybe I’ve lost my dedication altogether.. It’s really disturbing. I have got to snap out of it. I want someone to yell. (But not my boss.)
I’ve attempted to get burned out on being a bum, by giving in and letting myself work through this phase. But it turns out my appetite for doing nothing is insatiable. I can do this all day. All the time.
They say, dress and work for the job you want? Well, here in my PJs, doing nothing, I appear to be dressing for being unemployed. And if I don’t get some work done before the boss gets back from Israel this coming week, I might be closer than ever to a career-ectomy. And isn’t that what always saves me? My panicky efforts right before the ax comes down? (sigh)
(Devil’s sinkhole, Texas)
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This should come as absolutely no surprise, but I hate shopping during the holidays. Oh, unless I know exactly what I need. And I can get in and get out without a lot of shenanigans. There’s just so much extra… shit, everywhere. It’s just EVERYwhere. And children. Oh, god. The children.
Which reminds me, I also hate crowds. Unless I know exactly how to avoid bodily contact. And eye contact. Oh! And touching the same surfaces.
To avoid both shopping and crowds–much less crowds shopping–I tend to throw money at the problem. Therefore, by the law of something transitive and logical, I’d have to be finding things I knew I needed already, at next to no cost, with an armed escort to fend off children, in order to brave Black Friday.
Two of my dear friends have gone to Walmart. On, today, Black Friday. There’s absolutely nothing remotely successful that can come of this plan. Our prayers are with them.
Although, I have to say, this is the first year I’ve even remembered the event, or looked at the deals. I’m less than inspired to make a digital shopping cart on most of the sites so far. Maybe I wait til Cyber Monday? Or.. probably, I’ll just wait for a few weeks, and pay marked up, stupid ass prices…and have everything delivered from the internet…
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That artwork above the bed. I can’t even tell you how much it speaks to me. The whole scene, really. Little dog, hardwood floor, end table with lamp and clock. Lots of light. I love it. I’d change the duvet color but details, details..
And a wall with this beautiful red vine creeping… I just keep staring at it. Isn’t this pretty?
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To lose this weight, I’d have to run to Mount Vernon, Virginia. And back. Without eating anything.
Or run one mile a day for 10 months, and eat only 2,000 calories a day.
Or not eat anything for 75 days.
Or bike to Pittsburgh in a day.
Or swim the English Channel 8 times without stopping.
Or climb the Empire State Building 917 times.
You know. Cake.
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12.Nov.2011 Maria
I overstand how it must feel for you, looking up into undercast skies. As the sun jerks across the sky, it’s backfiring with sun spots and solar flares, like a shaky new driver constantly shifting first to second gear. I’ve stared at it until all contrast is gone from my eyes. Until the clear, white sky is black as night, and the sun has craters, and seas of dust.
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I’ve been cheating on postdec with other blogs. Sorry.
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