I’m a Mess

Here are the reasons I’m tempted to just go to bed right now and forget this day and try again tomorrow.

1. I’ve got this weird thing on my right arm. It’s a little hard patch the size of my finger tip and on top of the hard patch are six really hard shiny round things. Sometimes they itch. They hurt when I poke at them. I cannot stop poking at them.

2. My lower legs itch. Really bad. Fortunately, it hurts so much to scratch them that I have not scratched them. There seem to be a few random hard shiny round things on them, too, but they don’t map up to the itchy parts.

3. My face itches. Well, just my cheeks and my forehead. I think this may be the sunburn remnants, so I’m not too concerned, yet.

4. Work called and wanted me to deal with some mess. That ate up two hours.

5. I’ve done no dishes or laundry. Instead, I’ve played Roller Coaster Tycoon and sat by the dog and cried about how cute she is. There’s no reason to cry about how cute she is, so clearly something internally is fucked up. Perhaps whatever alien insects are living subcutaniously in my arm have a soft spot for really cute dogs with big brown eyes who curl up on the couch and snore softly while you’re trying to encourage 3,000 people to visit your amusement park.

6. The fucking door and, to that end, my completely ridiculous response to the Boy Scout’s rational suggestion. Yes, America, I keep hoping someone will ride in on his white horse and rescue me from my shitty self. Yes, I know that’s utterly stupid, but fuck it. I’m entitled to a shitty fantasy or two.

7. Me. God damn. I used to write about things that scared the shit out of me here, because it did me such good to name them and drag them out into the light of day and just get them out of me, because they sit in here, these things I fear, and they spoil on me in ways that are really bad for me.

But I’ve been pretending lately that I’m all competent and together and smart and thoughtful and tough and strong and I am those things, don’t get me wrong, but because I really want you to think of me that way, I’ve been writing only about those things.

Part of it has to do with losing my anonymity–not that most of you didn’t already know who I was. I keep telling myself that, that you knew who I was anyway. But it still shook me. Knowing that you have a name to put with these words made me want to put my best self forward to you, instead of my most honest.

Before, I felt like I could say things to you because I could draw a clear line between how I presented myself in real life and how I presented myself here. I’m still angry that someone else got to choose to conflate those two things and not me.

And clearly, it a move intended to scare me and knock me off my game and I’m pissed that it worked. And I’m pissed that it’s taking me so long to get back into the groove of really enjoying writing here, because being able to write here is important to me. How can I know what I think if I don’t sit down and think it?

So, here’s the thing. I’m jealous of people who have people they can count on, who can just call out “hey, I need help with the door” and someone comes to help. And I’m tired of feeling like I’m only barely competent when it comes to the ordinary things that people do–like home repair and car repair and doing the laundry and cleaning the bathroom–and I’m afraid that I’ll always be the only one I can count on to do those things anyway.

And the worst part is that I also know that there are at least three people I could call right now and say “Hey, I need help with the door,” and any one of them would come and help me.

So what the fuck is my problem? Why can’t I ask for help when I need it and accept it graciously when offered?

Why must I live my life like a delicious chocolate cake laced with toothpicks?

Heh, delicious chocolate cake laced with toothpicks… Fuck it. That’s pretty damn funny.

Who Will Fix My Door This Time?

I know March is supposed to come in like a lion and go out like a lamb, but this March seems to be storming around like a drunken boy friend who’s sure I’m in here fucking around on him and he’s going to break the god damn door down if he has to.

Now the door is attached to my home by the latch and one last hinge. It’s not so much “shut” as it is propped up in a closed position. But at least it is closed, which is an improvement over how it was a few minutes ago, flapping wildly in the breeze as the dohicky* that has the thingy that slides in and out that is supposed to keep the door shut bent in such a way that it now instead holds the door open.

Or did until I took the pin out.

So, now the door is holding on by one hinge and the dohicky is flapping freely in the wind. I’d call the landlord, but this is an ongoing problem with the door and my repairs to it have always been more successful than his.

I’ve never had a bent dohicky before, though, and I’m not sure what to do now.

Replace the dohicky? Replace the whole door? At least replace the screws that came out of the hinges, right?

*I believe this is the technical name.

Left Hand Vs. Right Hand

The Butcher has spent the morning shooting darts. It’s totally making me laugh. He’s playing himself–left hand versus right hand. And the right hand is winning, but not by an overwhelming amount.

So, the Butcher is busy giving pep talks to the left hand, reminding that hand that it’s got to make a good show, so that it can prove that the Butcher is not dominated by the tyranny of the right hand.

He told me that he was inspired by The Princess Bride and wants to get good enough left handed that he can regularly beat people so that if he meets someone who’s a little better than him, he can switch hands and win.

That boy cracks me up.

Though I remain confused why we still have the dart board, as I thought it was supposed to be a gift for the recalcitrant brother. I guess it just goes to show that if you never come to visit us, we’ll just keep your shit.

Vacation Day 1

Plan: Sleep late. Take dog to park, maybe, depending on how late I slept. Call the Professor and see what she’s been up to. Go back to bed.

Reality: I’m wide awake and it’s only 6:30. I wonder if it’s too early to call the Professor. And I guess I need to do some laundry, as all my clothes got run over by some airport vehicle and covered in deodorant.