Because it isn’t really important. Nothing I do honestly is. However, there are parts of the stuff I do that I like in general now, so there’s that. When I am away from home, at work, I’m pretty happy. Except I have some kind of whacked out tendinitis in my ankle, and moving it around after being still a while is agonizing. Still, it’s getting a bit better by the day. I think I stepped down on something poky and irritated the tendon in my foot - the one that’s still healing and made a “lisfranc sprain” thing - and it’s bitching that it didn’t sign up for this and so I am bitching that I really do need a working left foot, please and thank you.
So, we had Mephisto (the moderately feral, brain-damaged cat) neutered (because he was harassing “their baaaaaby” the what the fuck do you mean you have a kitten, who the hell asked if I needed another kitten, what the fuck, because they got a FEMALE cat and what do you know, she turned 4 months old and wanted to FUCK. Anyway, he’s chilled out some. It is surprising. His brother doesn’t trust him at all, and will still hiss and run, but Mephisto just keeps coming back. Some days I catch them sleeping together on my bed. That’s cute. The fear-induced bit of occasional urination, not so much. Boys. They keep promising to get their cat fixed, but it’s four months past her first season and she’s almost a year old, and what do you know, still intact. Fuck me. At least she’s not a screamer? And all the boys are fixed and won’t give her the time of day for the most part.
Still don’t have a fucking laundry solution.
Whacked the front end of Spouse’s Swedish u-boat (he has a Volvo. My Ford died.) When he fussed over the (tiny) damage (I broke a headlight and dented the fender) I just went and got a car. I am very uncomfortable with the idea of MAKING PAYMENTS but well, I have to. Please God let me have a job through all this, I guess.
I need less anxiety.
I don’t think I’ve had an orgasm this year. But to be fair, I am still gushing out random blood despite being on staggering amounts of Megace, but I can’t have the dumb surgery because I can’t lose weight because hurrah, the hormones in Megace are making my weight really stubborn! They’re apparently famous for it. So either I stop taking the shit and bleed it out, or I don’t even know, I take Megace forever? I’m not happy about any of this.
The kids and I have all tested positive for Von Willebrand’s disease. Because of that, I have like three kinds of anemia (not enough red blood cells, something’s wrong with some of the ones I have, and I don’t make this clotting factor thing either, so I bleed internally some, which I guess might as well be anemia? Who the hell knows.) An amusing side note: my mother commented when I brought up the disease that she’s pretty sure that’s the name of the doctor who delivered me. However, I think she’s being a drama whore, as the guy the thing’s named after died in 1949, in Helsinki. She’s weird like that, always popping in a bit of drama. However, it’s true I was delivered by a hematologist, a bleeding disorder specialist. Just not THAT one. Mine was nicknamed “The Vampire” and practiced in Texas.
I should thank him for the massive forceps scar on my forehead someday. But at least he didn’t puncture my skull, I guess.
Like I said, this isn’t much of an update. I want to write, but I can’t seem to find the space - headspace, physical space, any space. I just don’t have it. I don’t know what’s wrong. I’m feeling very antsy and irritable. I am having ideas, weirdly, but it’s like I’m in my own way, refusing to manufacture the enthusiasm required to get an idea off the ground and through the first 90 or so pages. (The middle is another beast, and takes another kind of push. But you usually start off on a high.)
I wonder if I am depressed even though I’m on antidepressants. Or perhaps I have some kind of emotional numbing. Or…maybe it’s just that I’m so fucking tired and fed up that I have broken my favorite part of my brain?
The repairs move on. The house has new windows and has been painted. I would have preferred a working second bathroom and new floors. I could USE that. I can’t complain about finally having a heater, but I can sure bitch about still having 40 year old carpet. It’s like having a bespoke suit and holey underpants. Sure you can show off on the outside…but heaven forbid you gotta get past that. I do not understand the priorities of these projects and I am not being consulted even a little. I resent this incredibly and I am hugely put out.
I am still sick of sleeping in a dining room. I still need doors. People still lounge on my bed like it is a second couch. It’s fine when it’s the kids, but…I object to other people on my bed, please and thank you. Especially not under my covers, please. What the fuck even lets you think that’s okay? I don’t hang out in YOUR bed. In fact, I do not go in your room. Ever. I feel it is inappropriate and imposing to barge in and out of someone else’s space, and I have not been invited to come in, so I DON’T. Why don’t I get that courtesy?
Ah right, because I live with entitled ass-monkeys. That’s why.
Urf. I still want to write, but this is just a rant now, and it’s a circular rant, and I know the solution, but that bitch isn’t getting a job and out of here and I REALLY WANT HER TO. And then HE can. At least the job. He can either do actual housework or do actual work. Is that so hard on anyone? Really?
Sometimes I wonder if I am horribly unreasonable, but I fear I am not.