Labor Day.
Someone finally rang the doorbell yesterday, despite the sign warning that anyone doing so will be shot in the face with water.
Unfortunately, Sargon prevented me from giving them their just desserts, even though they were clearly in violation of the sign.
This makes only two people who have done so since I posted it. It's much quieter around here because of it, I have to admit. And the morons who rang the doorbell anyway were, I think, illiterate.
I'm really wishing Sargon hadn't prevented me from spraying them. Ignorant dipshits.
And, I'm not being racist or anything, I just want to know. Why is it always Mexicans who come up to the door wanting to buy the car? And why don't they take "NO" for an answer? It's the same in Spanish as it is in English.
I keep wanting to write something with Real Content. A lot has been on my mind. I have a piece about what it's like living with a panic disorder mostly written. I have two pieces about abortion written; the topic is strongly on my mind, given the shitstorm that is about to erupt over abortion rights. I'm really feeling the need for a generalized childfree rant, but I'll probably save that for the appropriate forum, rather than inflicting it on parents here.
The bottom line is that I'm just too tired to want to deal with philosophy in my journal. Interestingly enough, on the few subjects about which I feel strongly, I do not enjoy debate. Abortion is the biggest one, but there are others. So I reduce myself to a diarrhea of cat posts (with pictures!) and book reviews, and tell myself I'll post something meaningful Real Soon Now.
I'd go personal - there's a lot shaking down in my life right now - but I'm avoiding writing about that for similar reasons. I'm just sick of dealing with the emotional onslaught of sympathy and suggestions right now. I love that it's there if I need it, but I've gone so far past being able to be helped by it that I don't see the point in opening up my personal life for discussion when all it's going to do is irritate me.
I can't tell if I'm so pared-down I'm running on fumes, or if my life is so crammed full that I'm choking on it. I barely know which end is up. All I have left is my writing, and I'm scared I'm burning myself out on that, too, by doing the porn-for-pay, but the pay is good enough, and I need it badly enough, that I can't justify not doing it when the alternative is sitting in the dark, starving, with no medication.
Things are looking good, better than they have in a while, but it's not a rosy kind of good. It's an unpleasant, hard-nosed kind of good that means I have a whole lot of work to do, and a lot of unpleasant shit to shovel, but if I bust my ass I just might be capable of pulling myself out of this morass. It's good the way draining an abscess is good - you know how and where to cut, and you know that it will be unpleasant and gross and difficult, but it's better to do it and have done.
I have no idea if this will work, or if it'll go anywhere, or where I'll be even a year from now, which is a terrifying feeling, but at least it's a direction.
Anyway, I'm heading off to see my folks for Labor Day, and hoping it won't be too painful. I've really enjoyed the long weekend, and managed to get a lot of work done, even though none of it is anything I could show off. It pays the bills, and right now, we need that money more than anything.
I'll try to be more . . . I don't know . . . present, I guess. If nothing else, I can rant. There's always rants to be ranted.
Unfortunately, Sargon prevented me from giving them their just desserts, even though they were clearly in violation of the sign.
This makes only two people who have done so since I posted it. It's much quieter around here because of it, I have to admit. And the morons who rang the doorbell anyway were, I think, illiterate.
I'm really wishing Sargon hadn't prevented me from spraying them. Ignorant dipshits.
And, I'm not being racist or anything, I just want to know. Why is it always Mexicans who come up to the door wanting to buy the car? And why don't they take "NO" for an answer? It's the same in Spanish as it is in English.
I keep wanting to write something with Real Content. A lot has been on my mind. I have a piece about what it's like living with a panic disorder mostly written. I have two pieces about abortion written; the topic is strongly on my mind, given the shitstorm that is about to erupt over abortion rights. I'm really feeling the need for a generalized childfree rant, but I'll probably save that for the appropriate forum, rather than inflicting it on parents here.
The bottom line is that I'm just too tired to want to deal with philosophy in my journal. Interestingly enough, on the few subjects about which I feel strongly, I do not enjoy debate. Abortion is the biggest one, but there are others. So I reduce myself to a diarrhea of cat posts (with pictures!) and book reviews, and tell myself I'll post something meaningful Real Soon Now.
I'd go personal - there's a lot shaking down in my life right now - but I'm avoiding writing about that for similar reasons. I'm just sick of dealing with the emotional onslaught of sympathy and suggestions right now. I love that it's there if I need it, but I've gone so far past being able to be helped by it that I don't see the point in opening up my personal life for discussion when all it's going to do is irritate me.
I can't tell if I'm so pared-down I'm running on fumes, or if my life is so crammed full that I'm choking on it. I barely know which end is up. All I have left is my writing, and I'm scared I'm burning myself out on that, too, by doing the porn-for-pay, but the pay is good enough, and I need it badly enough, that I can't justify not doing it when the alternative is sitting in the dark, starving, with no medication.
Things are looking good, better than they have in a while, but it's not a rosy kind of good. It's an unpleasant, hard-nosed kind of good that means I have a whole lot of work to do, and a lot of unpleasant shit to shovel, but if I bust my ass I just might be capable of pulling myself out of this morass. It's good the way draining an abscess is good - you know how and where to cut, and you know that it will be unpleasant and gross and difficult, but it's better to do it and have done.
I have no idea if this will work, or if it'll go anywhere, or where I'll be even a year from now, which is a terrifying feeling, but at least it's a direction.
Anyway, I'm heading off to see my folks for Labor Day, and hoping it won't be too painful. I've really enjoyed the long weekend, and managed to get a lot of work done, even though none of it is anything I could show off. It pays the bills, and right now, we need that money more than anything.
I'll try to be more . . . I don't know . . . present, I guess. If nothing else, I can rant. There's always rants to be ranted.