My Muse Is A Whore

My Sunday Night Blues

2006-04-09T16:27:00.000-04:00

I have well and truly had it with sitting around, getting fatter (I've gained twelves fucking pounds since my knee got really bad just before surgery), with frozen squash on my knee, while making circles with my toes. This fucking sucks. I can't get up and clean the apartment, for fear that I'll slow down the fucking healing process. I can't get up and exercise and try to make myself feel better, for fear that I'll slow down the fucking healing process. In the end, I can't go see D., and I can't even work on making mmyself look and feel better for him. I mean, for me. Really.

Right now, it feels hopeless. I know that's the Sunday bug having its nasty way with my mind, but that doesn't help the pain go away. We're too far apart, with established lives more than two hundred miles apart. We've been talking for over a month and haven't been able to get together...and sometimes the talking slows down, I don't feel very important, and I wonder what the fuck the point it. It feels like I'm just waiting for an "I met someone local," or "It's just not gonna work out." It's stupid. Danny would tell me it's stupid, Simone would tell me it's stupid, D. would tell me it's stupid.

Who Needs Sleep?

2006-04-01T20:26:00.000-05:00

Last night I dreamt of being injured, my abdomen sliced open, organs hanging out. The doctors began a repair but only gave me local anesthetic, then started talking about how there was no chance I was going to make it, as if I were really under general anesthesia. I writhed on the table, tried to get them to understand that I was in pain, and they just calmly held me down.
Then, for some reason, I was in surgery again, to fix the mess that hadn't been completed before. They put me under general anesthesia and did the job right. I remember waking up to an attractive female surgeon in scrubs, and seeing out the window behind her the light blue sky, bright sun, tiny wispy clouds...They told me I was in Afghanistan. Right.

Later on, I was out getting lost in the snow, trying to get to a farm where they supposedly had a stray Kai dog (a smallish asian breed). When I got to the 'farm,' the dog was there, beaten and starved, but with the most amazing shining almost metallic gold coat. It turned out that the dog wasn't a stray, and the husband was regularly beating the hell out of it. They had skinny horses and cows too, and there wasn't a fucking thing I could do about it.

At least my dreams don't portray some sort of feeling of powerlessness or anything.

One of the medications I take is specifically to help get rid of my nightmares. Somehow, I don't think it's working. It's been almost two months, and I'm having maybe even more nightmares than before, probably because the drug helps me sleep better. Stupid drugs.

I took the stitches out of my knee today. The incisions are more or less healed, and I don't feel like taking time off of work to have the PA wrench my knee around a little, snip out two stupid sutures, then charge my insurance company a couple hundred dollars. I'm just sick of that shit. I can take care of this myself. Stubborn? You bet your ass. Though I'd never survive in the wild.

My life isn't really that bad, when I look at it from through Vicodin-colored glasses. I have a decent apartment that I rather like, four sweet and insane cats, two dogs that I mostly like, a car that is more or less in working order, a supportive (yet insane) family, and a few really great friends. Nevermind that my friends don't really have faces, to me. But right now, I don't have love. I thought I was getting somewhere with D, but it's starting to seem like all the rest. I may be able to get to him if I work really hard at it, but if I walk away, he's not going to come after me. And, well, fuck that. I don't need that sort of relationship. I've had ten fucking years of that. I don't understand why the guys that I like end up not being all that interested in me, yet the guys I don't care for think they're in love with me. I really must have been a professional puppy-smasher in a previous life.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe D will come back, tell me he cares, be more attentive. Yet it really seems the death rattle of a relationship when I don't feel like I'm getting enough out of it and we haven't even met yet. I'm too crazy for this shit. I'm too needy for what he seems willing to give. If it's just that he's scared of being hurt...good job, man. You've hurt me instead.

Lump

2006-03-30T10:32:00.000-05:00

I feel so utterly useless today. I can't bend my knee enough to drive, I can't work from home, I can't sleep peacefully, I can't just wait and let things be what they will with D. This rollercoaster ride that's all in my head is making it hard for me to survive, and yet I can't just hang on and stop screaming, but I can't make myself just get off the ride. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Except maybe an unbroken heart.

Why Do Fools...

2006-03-29T13:48:00.000-05:00

Is it really possible to know what it is about a person makes you fall in love with them, or what makes you love them after that? Think about that for a second. If you don't have children, at least, since I can understand loving a person in part for the critters you've created.

I'm pretty sure I'm falling in love, and Danny (there's your mention, Danny...feel better?) asked me what it was that I loved about the guy. I'm attracted to him, we have some similar interests, he's fun to talk to...he makes me laugh, and makes me feel like there's a reason to bother with the future. But are these the reasons I'm falling? Can't blame it on pheromones, since he and I have never been in the same room together, yet. I don't know if there's a name for it. It's like a sort of magnetism, and I could feel it the first time we talked online. Love at first click.

And what if I'm wrong? I've been wrong before. But I'm really not worried about me. I know what I feel, and I'm pretty sure I could love this person. What freaks me out is not knowing what he thinks. So I overreact, panic, cry...stable as can be. He even has the ability to calm me down (not to mention get me worked up). I really want to do this right.

Percalicious

2006-03-26T21:41:00.000-05:00

I am convinced that in some language, Percoset means "happiness." No, not for long term use. But this weekend would have been utter torment without it, between post-surgical pain, being alone, and some emotional turmoil.

The funniest thing is that Percoset wasn't the only good part of the weekend. I think it helped me feel more secure and less panicky about D., especially since he was out of town. I really hope I can continue with my new protocol of no freaking out. It's hard for me to not freak out when I think I
am falling in love...though I certainly don't have the guts to tell D. that. But I'm pretty sure he knows. He's a smart guy, and my shirt sleeves are covered in cardiac muscle. The biggest trick is not telling myself, baselessly I should add, that he doesn't feel the same way. I don't know. I hope he does. It'll really suck if he doesn't, but I know I'm strong enough to survive it...I just don't want to have to.

And then there's the strangest thing: Tommy came back. Tommy was a big, strange part of my life many years ago. I met him online, became friends, and inadvertently fell in love with him, or the persona he portrayed. I was a really weak, frightened person then. My life was falling apart, my relationship was falling apart, and he offered me the attention, friendship, support, whatever, that helped me to get through it. It was a fucked up friendship - especially when he disappeared all of a sudden, and he's not someone for me to fall in love with...but like it or not, I care about the guy. I want to ask him about his real life. I want to be friends with the person he really is, and I'm afraid he'll never let me in. Worse, how can I ever know for sure? The internet allows people to lie, portray who or whatever they want to be. I do know, though, that if he disappears again, I'm really going to give him hell.

I don't get it. I have so much love, so much caring for other people, and still I feel that people see me as a cold, sarcastic, unloving bitch. Maybe because there's no in between. Either I'll die for someone, or I wish they'd die. I think I'm getting better at not letting people know I want them to die, unless they push me. Then they deserve whatever I have to tell them.

Deja Loser

2006-03-20T09:49:00.000-05:00

So, here I am again. Uncertain but growing more and more sure that I've found another relationship that will just strip me bare and beat me bloody, metaphorically speaking. It's not even a relationship, this time. It's more like the karmic boomerang, relationship edition. Little Danny chased after me and I was absent and "too busy." And here I am, chasing after someone who is busy and uncommunicative and doesn't seem to mirror my emotional attachment. I'm a leech, an emotional vampire, a...something else bad that would explain why I can't put together a decent relationship to save my life.
I should be ok with this. I decided a while back that I like living alone. It's just such a damn tease to find someone that seems to fit so well...but they all seem to fit at first...or at least many of them. Danny didn't, Bill didn't, but the rest...I got that painful, anxious excitement that is the feeling of my common sense dying.

Just as I lose hope, something changes, I'm thrown enough of a lifeline to keep from going completely under. I never get back on the boat, but I never entirely drown. I'm supposed to have faith. Hah. Me, faith? You might as well tell me to have a penis, because I wasn't born with one and I'm not about to spontaneously grow one. It would take work, both for me and at least one other person, for me to obtain a penis. The same goes for faith. The only big difference is that I wouldn't mind having faith. All penises in my life should be part of other people.

Kill Me, Billy

2006-03-13T20:06:00.000-05:00

Ya little pecker.

I don't think I'm quite cut out for this world. Bad things drag me down to the ground...and I'm finding that I'm so afraid of losing good things, I can barely stand having them at all. I hate the internet for fucking with my emotions. I hate the internet for muddying the waters there were never very clear to begin with. I hate the internet, and I can't shut it off.

Obsess Much?

2006-03-11T05:44:00.000-05:00

Last night, I stayed up late, waiting for D. to get online again. My knee was throbbing, but I tried to ignore it...if I took a vicodin, I knew I'd fall asleep and miss him. To top it all off, I couldn't use the nickname he knows on IRC, since somehow I'd managed to stay connected from work. Cue small panic attack.
I waited...and waited...and waited. I told a friend about the situation, and he suggested I call D. But...I don't know. I don't want to see so damn needy and insecure, even though I am. Especially since I am. I also was worried he came home from work exhausted, or with another headache, and I really didn't want to call and wake him up.
God, I hate being a stupid girl.
So, I took a vicodin when I couldn't stand my knee anymore, and struggled to stay awake. I kept dozing and forcing my eyes open to see if he had suddenly appeared online. Eventually, I just couldn't do it anymore. After a bit of sleep, I ended up closing my laptop and leaving it on the corner of my bed so I could collapse without light. This morning, 5 AM or so, I woke up and opened up the laptop. Right after I had fallen asleep, D. had come online. Just my luck.
As S. pointed out, if D. likes me, and it seems he does, it'll be harder than that to screw things up. But I worry. I always worry.

I had really strange dreams, too. I'd blame it on the vicodin, but I always have strange dreams. I remember being on a large boat, with masts all over the place, rather than in the usual arrangement. We were escaping from someone or something, I think, but there were no ropes for the sails. Someone put together paperclip chains, and we used those...I had no idea what I was doing, but I guess I managed.
I also dreamt about being a vet tech again. My old boss had some sort of spinal injury, and we were taking care of this sick dog that was owned by a greasy 'I know guys in the Mob' type.
Plus, there was something about highschool, with no one wanting to sit near me, feeling totally left out. And I think there was some sort of bomb scare, or poisonous gas or something. That was definitely the worst part. I've got to stop talking with Messy about things like that (highschool, not gas. I try not to talk to people about gas, unless it's argon or acetylene).

Kittycat

2006-03-09T09:22:00.000-05:00

I shouldn't be sitting here writing this; I have so much work to do my head is spinning. But my head spins for another reason too. I met someone. (How many times have I said or written these words? Shouldn't I know better by now?) I think for the purposes of this silly journal, I'm going to call him D.
Part of me doesn't want to say any more than that. I'm always certain someone is going to read this and cause problems for me. I'm afraid he'll read this and say, "Oh shit. All I wanted was a fuck buddy and this loony is going all googly-eyed over me." Which I guess is what happened with me and Danny the loser...I don't want to be on the other side of that sort of mistake. Ever.
It's probably best that I don't have his email address or screen name for a messaging program (yet), since I really am googly-eyed this morning. Googly-eyed but worried. Scared. I can't just ignore this, but this feeling has gotten me in trouble so many other times. I'm exhausted because I stayed up too late hoping he'd go back online. I want to track him down and ask him if he's some sort of hypnotist, though I know I'm just suggestible all on my own. All it takes is someone with the right proportions and types of intelligence, humor and desire.

I worry that I'm not good enough, every time I start to fall for someone...but if I really think about it, I'm plenty good, dammit. I like to take care of people who are good to me. That doesn't make a very good fuck buddy, but...well...I guess I just need to be patient and see where things go, if anywhere. The distance will make life difficult. I wonder if I told him that I didn't want to meet him in person until after my surgery and once I started to lose some weight, if he'd get frustrated and either drop me and disappear or tell me to get bent. I feel more like he'd try to talk me out of that, tell me that it doesn't matter. Part of me really really wants to hear that, that I'm ok the way I am and that anything I do to fix myself will only make me better. Part of me wants to hide under a rock and never come out, so I don't get hurt.

Meow meow cough...Meow?

2006-03-03T15:13:00.000-05:00

So apparently Germans are dropping their cats like they're hot, simply because one dead cat was found to have the dread flu virus. Shelters are full. I wonder if they use gas chambers in German animal shelters. C'mon, kitty, time for your bath!
I guess this shows that not only Americans are stupid. How hard is it to keep your cat inside, where it won't contract the flu virus? Fuckers.

Maybe I'm a crazy cat lady. I know four cats is a lot, but I can't imagine how lonely and drab my apartment would be without them. Even when they decide to fight in the middle of the night. I just wonder what these people are thinking. Are pets just disposable? What would you do if your little son or daughter's friend came down with the bird flu? Time to kill the kiddies, hon. Oh well, we have pictures.

What's Left of my Brain

2006-03-03T08:55:00.000-05:00

It's a good thing Winblows has a little date and time thingie down there in the bottom right hand corner of my screen. I keep getting this horrible fear that it's really Thursday, and I'll sleep in tomorrow thinking it's Saturday. Wait, that doesn't sound so bad, as long as no one told the boss.

I hate going to the post office in this town. Now, the people at the counter are friendly enough, and they generally give me my mail in a somewhat timely fashion. It's just this one guy that seems to get his mail at the same time I go, every single friggin day. If you look in the dictionary at the entry for "molester," you will see a picture of this guy, from skeezy little moustache to icky hair right down to too-tight jeans. I keep telling myself that the guy probably has no idea, thinks he looks fine, and is most likely an upstanding member of society. Oh god, now I have to wash my eyes out with bleach, after using the words "upstanding member" in regards to him. That's just not cool.

Ok, we have to get rid of that mental image. Let's think about the physician's assistant that examined my knee yesterday. Could I take him home, please? I'm sure my insurance would cover it. If not, I have a few suggestions as to how I could compensate him for his time. I just wish I had the sort of face and/or body that would make guys want to get to know me better, instead of a personality that sometimes makes guys look past my physical self.

What's Wrong With Looking Like A Person?

2006-03-02T10:54:00.000-05:00

I followed a link from some website today and came to the portfolio of a...graphic artist, I guess. There are all sorts of before and after pictures of models and celebrities. Every wrinkle is wiped away and not a blood-shot eye can remain. God forbid that a magazine image is remotely true to life. I have the urge to email the artist and tell her that she can count herself among the responsible when it comes to eating disorders and poor self esteem. I hate them for this. Maybe if models actually were shown as they are, my head wouldn't be so messed up. They actually made models skinnier! Why?!? Apparently, a few inches on the hips is all that stands between a model and actual beauty. Fuckers.

Why should a fifty year old person be pictured with the skin of a twenty year old? I don't even want to see this. It's not art. It's not selling jack shit, at least not to me. It's dishonest. They're pulling the cashmere/virgin wool blend over our eyes, here. When we hit fifty, we're disgusted that we don't look that way...no one looks that way, honey, except for maybe a twenty year old, on a really good day. I don't want to hate myself. Instead, I think I'm going to hate the people responsible for this. Not just the artists, since they have a talent and they're most likely being asked to do this stuff. I want to hurt the magazine photo editors or whoever it is that orders those tiny lines be erased from the model's face and hands. Like there isn't beauty in the unaltered human body and face.

My Mind Wanders

2006-03-02T09:36:00.000-05:00

Sometime this morning, I realized I had a song stuck in my head. It's the Oscar Mayer bologna song...kind of.

My bologna has a first name
It's Oscar
My bologna has a second name
It's Mayer
Oh I love to eat it every day
And if you ask me why, I'll say
Cuz Oscar Mayer had his way with your b-o-l-o-g-n-a

I'm twisted. And maybe just a little bit retarded.

Fuck Lent, I Want Cadbury Creme Eggs

2006-03-02T08:59:00.000-05:00

Ever pretend you're a raccoon raiding a bird's nest, cracking open a nice Cadbury Creme Egg to get to the creamy yolk....no? Ok, maybe that's just me. The bitch is when you open one and find the cream all congealed and dry; it's like finding a mostly grown chick in the egg you planned to fry. Except I'll still eat the Cadbury egg. The other one is only good for shock value.

I started my new diet today. Zero fat. All Peeps, all the time. Hey, Peeps have no fat. Wait, where are you going? At least it's better than blowing them up in the microwave. Kinda.

Is it bad that I just had a conversation that involved the words "hot throbbing cock" with a customer? Because I rather enjoyed it. It's fun to have a customer to flirt with again. He's even married, so there's not as much chance for it to be uncomfortable. Now, I just have to find an unmarried perv.

I Am A Whiny, Self-Absorbed Asshole

2006-03-01T09:38:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I got the preliminary results of the MRI on my knee. Fluid. That's it. There's fluid in my knee. Which really sounds like no big deal, right? But without an injury to blame all the pain on, what am I left with? The fear of rheumatoid arthritis, that's what. The disease that had my grandmother in a wheelchair. The disease I've seen drag my father down over the years. Ever since I became aware of the fact that it is hereditary, I've been deathly afraid of every ache. Just thinking about that possibility yesterday brought me to tears, on the phone with my father trying not to be accusatory about his rotten genes. I told my mother it felt like a death sentence.

So I took some Tylenol with codeine, and sat down to watch some TV. I flipped through a hundred channels and stopped at A&E, one of the usual suspects. I actually stopped there just in time to see a movie starting, one that I had hoped to get a chance to see. "Murderball," about the US quad rugby team. It took me a few minutes to register the irony of it all. I was watching these broken men, most of whom bore long scars down their necks, some of whom were missing hands, legs, or were otherwise disfigured...and they were competing fiercely, then celebrating wtih girlfriends and wives...living. What kind of an asshole am I for calling arthritis death when these people are living fuller lives than I have, without the use of their legs or even full use of their arms? It gave me a combination of hope and disgust with myself. I needed both.

What I really need is a longterm goal. Something to focus on, something to make me work through whatever obstacles I come across. My version of murderball.

Are people really this stupid?

2006-02-25T14:52:00.000-05:00

I was opening a piece of cheese today when I noticed a little warning beneath the list of ingredients. "Contains milk." Yeah, right under the ingredients list which begins with pasteurized milk. Are there people out there who are dumb enough to grab a block of cheese and wonder if it has milk in it? These people should be allowed to die of their allergies. It's not quite like a bagel that's made in a plant where they process peanuts. If you buy cheese, it's got milk in it. Duh.

I have to figure out how to get my laptop keyboard fixed, since charming little Bella damaged some of the keys. It's much easier to type staying in bed right now because my knee is pretty much trashed. After slipping on the ice yet again yesterday morning (don't judge. I admit my klutziness but don't know how to fix it) my knee is sore and swollen and bruised, and it's stopped moving wrong now and then when I walk. Now it's starting to give out altogether at times, and I've gone from swearing colorfully to being unable to form words at all and just keening as the tears well up in my eyes.

Ain't this fun.

Painful Confessions of a Girl Geek

2006-02-23T09:44:00.000-05:00

I may have admitted before that I'm a geek. Sometimes I'm even proud of it, at least to the extent that it means I don't cry over broken nails or devote my Tivo to recording soap operas. Then again, I don't record Star Trek or have Star Wars posters in my apartment either. I'm sort of a multi-class geek. A little D&D, a little scientist, a little crazy cat lady. I'm sure there's more, but I'd rather not think about all the depths of my not-cool-ness.

I started reading The Order of the Stick yesterday. My exboyfriend had recommended it a bunch of times, and I wrote it off as stupid. I've been going through the archives though, and I can't stop reading it. It's even making me long for the days of playing D&D with the first ex, back when we had the perfect group. I laugh just thinking about them, especially the one rainy night we just couldn't settle down to the game and instead went out chasing after a ghost that one of the friends swore he had seen on the way home from school more than once. We never did end up seeing a ghost, to my disappointment (I'm a hardcore skeptic, but I'd really enjoy being proven wrong...about a lot of things). We just got wet and dirty and I was scared shitless that the owner of the land we were tromping around on was going to come out with a shotgun. It was farm land. It wouldn't be the first time I was warned off of farm land by an armed man. But that's another story for another day.

If opposites attract, I should find myself drooling after football players and punk boys. No, it's gamers and ... well... more gamers. I don't want to, I really don't! But then there's the dark, hidden, rpg loving part of my soul (I have a soul? Since when?) that cries out to play games and fall for dorks. Kill me now.

The Rules, According to Me

2006-02-20T09:14:00.000-05:00

Ok, look, everyone has a job to do around here. This is only going to work if we all pitch in, guys. There's no "i" in blog ( though somehow, there's a lot of "me, me, me," but that's irrelevant to the rules). If you write a blog, write a blog. Write lots. I'm bored out here, people. If you read a blog, comment. I'm sick of reading my own stupid words.

To recap:
Post
Comment
Rinse
Repeat

Are we clear?

2006-02-20T08:02:00.000-05:00

I pray that someday I will own a dog that is smart enough not to step in its own shit after going. If there really is a god, I'm totally screwed for wasting his time over dogshit.

What do you feed a person who has avian flu? You can't very well give them chicken soup. This seems like something lame comedians would have picked up on - I hope I didn't steal this from someone, since it's barely good enough to pass off as my own.

It's going to take a lot to turn this into an ok day. Right now I'm so irritable I can barely stand to hear my dogs eating. Friggin disgusting snorting and slapping lips and blech. I could puke. It reminds me of boyfriends past.

2006-02-18T19:50:00.000-05:00

I just got a strange burst of happy energy. I don't know where it came from, but I spent it on my dogs. I wouldn't change a thing, except for how long it lasted.

Why I Have Pets, Not a Boyfriend

2006-02-17T09:44:00.000-05:00

Awwwww. Just when I was feeling really awful this morning, Bella came over and rested her head on my ankle ever so softly. I swear, my dogs know a lot more about being decent people than most humans ever will.

And yes, I feel awful, but only physically. After calling Frank on the big porcelain phone last night, I look like death warmed over and don't feel a hell of a lot better than that, but my mind seems clearer. I'm not so wound up with some of the stupid petty issues that had brought me down yesterday. I'm not even pissed off that I'm probably going to have to work for a few hours on Sunday, though I'd prefer to be sitting on my ass playing World of Warcraft, because I'm a big smelly geek girl. (I don't know why "smelly" - I showered today, I swear. It just seemed the right thing to type.)

I'm not worried about my MRI anymore, what they'll find or what the surgery will be like. I'm going to let it happen, and take comfort in the fact that they'll most likely give me some nice drugs to make recovery pass by a little more pleasantly. I'm not going to think about what will happen at the office without me here, because I can always fix things. I'm not going to think about school, because there are some things I just don't know how to fix.

I feel the fiction bug wriggling beneath my skin again. I just don't have the right things to write.

2006-02-16T08:44:00.000-05:00

Maybe I should start a dream journal, like Kim has. My mornings are consumed by picking apart this brain detritus and trying to expell it from my head. Today, I can't seem to clear the cobwebs enough to write anything coherent.

I remember two parts of my dream very clearly, as they were really disturbing. First, there was this woman running some sort of cult, and I was trying to turn people away from it. She came after me with a great big knife, and I think she managed to cut deeply into me. I fought back with a knife of my own (my dream was kind enough to arm me) and hacked entirely through her torso. I pushed and pushed at her, but her body wouldn't fall apart in two pieces, and she wouldn't die. She just kept laughing at me and stabbing at me. All around her were her willing converts refusing to help me. I really don't think you need to be Freud to figure that one out. The background of that part of the dream was college, which certainly makes sense with the mass of stupid people who wouldn't see reason. I think I shared my dorm room with my old highschool friend Sarah, and to get into the room, we had to climb through an elevator - not ride up or down, but go through a door, into an elevator and out the door on the other side. I never timed it right and the doors were always closing on me and the elevator was always moving upwards.

In another part of the dream, my father and I were traveling somewhere, I have no idea where, but to get there we had to walk this long pathway over water. The path was like a floating dock, only there were big spaces in between each board...and as we progressed, the water started getting higher and higher and washing over the path. At one point, I couldn't see the boards anymore and the waves were crashing hard into us, and my dad was washed away. All I could do was keep moving. Funny, now that I write it down, it seems pretty easy to find meaning in that one too.

I only remember tidbits of the rest: rollerskating through a mall (I often dream about getting lost in malls), seeing my middleschool friend Steph riding by on a racing bicycle, cheating on a cheating boyfriend. I wish my dreams were more coherent - they'd give me one hell of a writing career.

Whelmed Over

2006-02-15T10:10:00.000-05:00

Everything is piling up on me. It will be a brick that breaks this camel's back, not a straw. It will be bitchy, intolerant people that push me over the edge. I was just chewed out by some decrepit old crone because I closed ten minutes early last night so her daughter wasn't able to bring in a water sample. First of all, give me a fucking break. I'm human, not some robot that gets plugged into an outlet in the broom closet every night. If only I had one of those...but I digress. Secondly, it's common courtesy not to bring in a sample right before closing. Each sample takes a fair amount of paperwork, plus whatever preparation might be necessary. But no one gives a shit about that. (That's not entirely true. Lots of decent customers call and ask how late they can bring in a sample, or call to say they're running late and ask nicely if I could wait a few minutes. And I never mind waiting for those people.) The little old biddy told me she was considering writing a nasty letter. It was all I could do to not tell her to get a fucking life. There is a considerable elderly population around here, many of whom have lived here their entire miserable lives. They have nothing to do out here in the boonies, and most probably wish they could be off bitching at a waiter at a sunny cafe in Ft. Olderdale. It's not that I have a problem with elderly people. I have a problem with elderly people who feel they don't have to use the same courtesy that every else uses. "I'm old, I can do whatever the fuck I want." Right. And people wonder why there are abuses taking place at nursing homes (not that I'm condoning abuse of the elderly - I'm condoning abuse of the inconsiderate, the selfish, the petulant.)

Even the dogs are driving me to distraction. Every time I sit down, Bella has to jump up and plant her dirty paws on me. She refused to "go" this morning and made me later to work. And as usual, she howled all the way to work. My screaming at her doesn't seem to help much, but I have a hard time not doing it. I'm starting to think her howling is her way of protesting my horrible driving.

And then there's my school work. It stares at me every day from beside the computer monitor, and no matter what I do, I can't make heads or tails of it. I made a horrible mistake by ever signing up for two classes at once. I don't think I could handle either one of these on their own, maybe not even if I wasn't working. Anything that makes me feel this stupid should be illegal. My knee surgery is probably going to disrupt my studying too, unless they push it off for months, which would not make me particularly happy, since the fucker hurts. I'm worried that I'm not exercising enough because of it, and won't lose the weight I need to...and then surgery will make that even worse.

I shouldn't worry. Whatever happens will happen. Stressing myself out is just going to fuck with my immune system and make me sick, and make it hard to enjoy this life that is passing by way too fast. As sucky as it can be, I'm of the belief that it's the only one I get.

Dare I Say "Fuck?"

2006-02-14T10:09:00.000-05:00

Oh fuck this. Fuck this in its stupid ass.

My doctor just called about the xrays of my knee, the knee I injured while being a dumbass four years ago (as if there's a time when I'm not being a dumbass, I know). He told me, maybe in slightly more sensitive terms, that my knee is fucked. There's "significant" degenerative arthritis in there, and arthroscopy is called for to remove some bone spurs. That's not even addressing the cause of the arthritis, which could be a torn meniscus, damaged ligament, or a grab-bag of a bunch of bad shit.

What does this mean for me? Well, I might as well give up now. I don't even have anyone in the area who could drive for me. I live on the friggin second floor. I have two dogs who need to be walked regularly. I have a job with no one to cover for me. This means, in effect, that I am just as fucked as my knee, without the option of surgery to fix my life.

This also means I'm going to be out a thousand dollars (my deductible), plus whatever applicable co-payments. Add to that prescriptions and rechecks and maybe even physical therapy, depending on what they find is wrong with me. I'm going to need a therapist before I even get to the MRI.

Fuck Valentines Day

2006-02-14T08:43:00.000-05:00

My subconscious taunts me. Last night, the night before my first Valentine's Day without a boyfriend, I dream of falling in love. He was a tall, handsome college student with an irrestible English accent. In the dream, I was in college too, so it didn't feel quite so lecherous as if I was chasing a college student now, at 28. The summer break was about to begin and he was sullen and angry and wouldn't talk to me. Finally, I made him tell me what was wrong. He was leaving for his vacation in Italy or Greece or somewhere...and he had fallen in love with me.

That's strange enough, an attractive, intelligent man distraught with emotion over me. But it got definitely more bizarre. We spent every minute together before vacation, in the dorms, going places...at one point, we went swimming in a lake that was closed. There were large dead birds floating in the water, in our way, and smelled horrendous. And still, it was a happy dream. I wish I could remember more of it, since it's the only way I get to feel the security of being wanted. The biggest problem of it is that it still feels real. I feel like I lost something, simply by waking up. Stupid to connect to someone that exists only in the maelstrom of the subconscious left at the controls.

I don't want to be depressed today. I don't want to feel like something is missing from my life, just because the only one snoring next to me in bed is an obese tabby cat. It's so cliche to be unhappy on VD because you're unattached...but worse to be unhappy because you're with someone who doesn't even take the time to buy a 50 cent carnation for you on the way home, or make you a silly paper card. Christ, steal some flowers out of the cemetery. Money really doesn't matter on this day, as far as I'm concerned. Just let him or her know that you care and appreciate him or her. People who ignore their significant others on this day should be stapled to death.