(no subject)
My dad was in the paper today. The article was about people with weird or unusual jobs. Gotta love it. That's our world, folks. A typewriter repairman counts as an odd job. Beam me up.
Sunday isn't, in fact, my fun day.
I've been begging my skin to break open. Open on its own before my jumble of nerves and thoughts broke through for me. And I know why I'm this way. And that makes it worse. I can absolutely point to the one thing that happened this morning that made the rest of the day into this tip me over and pour me out teapot kind of a day. And that, somehow, makes it worse. At least if I didn't know, I could chalk it up to some kind of ennui. But no. And the reason makes me so mad at myself, but I can't help it. I see this happening, I feel it beginning, and I can't do anything to stop it. Walking the neighborhood path didn't do it. Running away didn't do it. Nor shopping. Or food. Nothing. Go. A. Way. Except don't, because if you did I truly don't know what I'd do. And that makes me hate it just a little bit more.
Sunday isn't, in fact, my fun day.
I've been begging my skin to break open. Open on its own before my jumble of nerves and thoughts broke through for me. And I know why I'm this way. And that makes it worse. I can absolutely point to the one thing that happened this morning that made the rest of the day into this tip me over and pour me out teapot kind of a day. And that, somehow, makes it worse. At least if I didn't know, I could chalk it up to some kind of ennui. But no. And the reason makes me so mad at myself, but I can't help it. I see this happening, I feel it beginning, and I can't do anything to stop it. Walking the neighborhood path didn't do it. Running away didn't do it. Nor shopping. Or food. Nothing. Go. A. Way. Except don't, because if you did I truly don't know what I'd do. And that makes me hate it just a little bit more.