Two oatmeal raisin cookies and a cup of weak coffee for breakfast. Breakfast of champions. But that’s not what this is about.
I’ve been writing more. Fiction. Some puff fiction to get things out of my head, and one story that has a lot of potential to be decent. Good thing for me to do, though I think, if anything, it makes me even more misanthropic and grumpy. But, again, not what this is about.
This is supposed to be about prison work. But it’s not going to be. That post may or may not ever get written. We’ll see.
We moved recently. Not moved-moved, just to another building in the same complex. Smaller apartment, lower rent. Third floor.
Fun fact: you have to give 30 days notice to move out of an apartment, but if you’re switching apartments, the complex can give you two weeks to get ready to move, and only 3 days in which to do it.
Now most people reading this will have had, at one point or another, the distinct (dis)pleasure of helping me move. So, most of you know, I do not move well. My writer skills fail utterly at expressing how monumental an understatement that last phrase is. No matter how much or how little notice I have, how near or far the move, I get all kinds of freaked out. This has nothing to do with where I am moving from or to, and certainly nothing to do with the people who are achieving guaranteed-sainthood-even-if-you-don’t-believe-in-that-sort-of-thing by helping me to move. My… sense of place is somewhat borked (oh, look, the place is just lousy with understatements. Watch out for them, they hide under the carpet and bite toes,) and so I am trying to learn to do the things I can do to make moving me easier for the people kind enough to do it, and then go hyperventilate quietly in a corner that is out-of-the-way.
This time around, I got a little better at the latter half of that, but not so much better at the former half. Mostly because I’d been working 10 hour days since Memorial Day in order to keep all my paychecks at 40 hours and still be able to take a day and a half off for moving, all on crappy no-CPAP sleep while the Monroe heals.
It’s alright, though, now. I can never move again, because Brian is moving out-of-state. Okay, that’s just me being melodramatic, but I have decided that even if I have to work three jobs and prostitute myself, we are hiring movers from here on out.
Also I will be getting rid of things, but that is neither here nor there. Unless you are interested in a cedar chest that weighs approximately 48.7 tons, in which case maybe we can talk.
But, getting to what this actually all about, if I have been an asshole to you in the last month-ish — and chances are good that I have — this is, in part, why.
Oh, there are other reasons. There are always other reasons. I’m battling the depression monster, again-still-as-always, which makes me incredibly myopic about the fact that people, you know, make plans with or around me. I should name it, really, that monster. Have a nice cozy euphemism that no one understands for the giant suck that is depression, like the twee girls call having your period a visit from Aunt Flo. I’d call it the Wrestling the Black Dog (not melodramatic at all, really,) but I like black dogs. Maybe I shall name it Frunobulax, and forgo getting a toy poodle to go with the name. There is something vaguely appropriate about my depression being a giant black poodle, one that terrorizes villagers. But I digress, and those of you who haven’t hit the back button yet are probably confused.
I came across a bit of information, recently, one that’s not really mine to talk about (sorry to be all emo and mysterious, I really don’t mean to be, for once,) that got me thinking about friendships, and how I’m not very good at them. Which was accidentally compounded with some other bits of information along the same lines, and… well, damn, but that’s a lot of suck to be thinking about all at once.
So, I’ve some fences to mend, and some directed navel-gazing to do, and more wimpy coffee to consume. I’ll probably be in touch, soon. Sorry for being a jerk.