MP: Work's Not Gonna Do Itself
It was morning when I opened this window and put a title on it, but it's not anymore. Time has kind of evaporated today, some of it because I was writing, which is great, and some because I was reading and making concrit on what was reading, and some because I was just farting around websurfing. I'm also still sick with the cold that never ends that's probably really a sinus infection that needs a different antibiotic than the one I'm on. And I need to make some phone calls to friends, friends I said I'd call back and then didn't because I spaced out.
I need to prepare for a workshop on writing I'm giving at the church on Sunday afternoon, and I have no idea where to start. I need to deal with renewing my driver's license and paying a speeding ticket from last year, I need to deal with my IRS issues, and probably should find an accountant, and I can't even bring myself to open the certified letter the government sent me. It's sitting there, quietly menacing me with the potential of whatever the government has decided I was doing wrong when I calculated my taxes last year or five years ago, or whenever they think there was a problem worth sending me certified mail about.
I need to fill out the paperwork to renew my disability, and I'm afraid to deal with that, too, afraid they'll say, "You know what? Go to work sick. Who gives a shit if you are ill and miserable and die young, the economy is in the tank and you need to get off your ass and support yourself into the ground." Afraid I don't have enough doctors on my side anymore, and that no one will believe me.
And I have to go get an ultrasound done on a lymph node that looked "funny" on a mammogram, and I should probably make an appointment with some kind of doctor about the fact my insides are hurting again, and I definitely need to find a new immunologist closer to me up here to deal with the CVID which I can't really afford to treat, especially if I lose my disability benefits, and I need to schedule my car repairs from being rear-ended in January, and I need to fill out an official accident report for the government because just fixing the damn bumper and replacing the lost tailpipe cap is gonna cost over $500, and...
And I feel very, very put upon by it all, in case you can't tell.
Are you sensing a theme here? Have I, perhaps, been shirking my responsibilities as an adult?
Fuck, have I ever really been an adult?
And okay, maybe I'm just being angstful because it's raining for the nth day in a row, but I don't think so. I think I'm being angstful because I knew these problems were pending, and I said "Later. After the play, after the holidays, after my trip to England." Well, guess what? It's later. It's after those things, and I still don't want to deal with this shit, because I'm pretty sure it's going to take a lot of time and money and stress, and I'm going to come out the other side in a lot worse shape than I am now.
Fuck it. I'm angry. I'm angry about it, angry at myself for letting things slide, angry at my body for being sick, angry at the government for taxing the pittance of a disability benefit they don't even want to give me and are threatening to take away. So fuck it. I'll deal with it. Whatever. Like any other drudge work, I'll get through it, and eventually life will sort itself out. It always does. Whatever.
Admitting you're a screw up is the first step, right?
I need to prepare for a workshop on writing I'm giving at the church on Sunday afternoon, and I have no idea where to start. I need to deal with renewing my driver's license and paying a speeding ticket from last year, I need to deal with my IRS issues, and probably should find an accountant, and I can't even bring myself to open the certified letter the government sent me. It's sitting there, quietly menacing me with the potential of whatever the government has decided I was doing wrong when I calculated my taxes last year or five years ago, or whenever they think there was a problem worth sending me certified mail about.
I need to fill out the paperwork to renew my disability, and I'm afraid to deal with that, too, afraid they'll say, "You know what? Go to work sick. Who gives a shit if you are ill and miserable and die young, the economy is in the tank and you need to get off your ass and support yourself into the ground." Afraid I don't have enough doctors on my side anymore, and that no one will believe me.
And I have to go get an ultrasound done on a lymph node that looked "funny" on a mammogram, and I should probably make an appointment with some kind of doctor about the fact my insides are hurting again, and I definitely need to find a new immunologist closer to me up here to deal with the CVID which I can't really afford to treat, especially if I lose my disability benefits, and I need to schedule my car repairs from being rear-ended in January, and I need to fill out an official accident report for the government because just fixing the damn bumper and replacing the lost tailpipe cap is gonna cost over $500, and...
And I feel very, very put upon by it all, in case you can't tell.
Are you sensing a theme here? Have I, perhaps, been shirking my responsibilities as an adult?
Fuck, have I ever really been an adult?
And okay, maybe I'm just being angstful because it's raining for the nth day in a row, but I don't think so. I think I'm being angstful because I knew these problems were pending, and I said "Later. After the play, after the holidays, after my trip to England." Well, guess what? It's later. It's after those things, and I still don't want to deal with this shit, because I'm pretty sure it's going to take a lot of time and money and stress, and I'm going to come out the other side in a lot worse shape than I am now.
Fuck it. I'm angry. I'm angry about it, angry at myself for letting things slide, angry at my body for being sick, angry at the government for taxing the pittance of a disability benefit they don't even want to give me and are threatening to take away. So fuck it. I'll deal with it. Whatever. Like any other drudge work, I'll get through it, and eventually life will sort itself out. It always does. Whatever.
Admitting you're a screw up is the first step, right?