Note(s) to Self...
Now is not the time for a pink crew cut. Never's the time for radical eyebrow styling. Always is the time to write.
I'm still tired, the headaches are either back or a result of the med withdrawal. The shocky sensations don't happen nearly as often, but I'm still anxious and my thoughts are scattered, plod along, and my spelling requires more attention than I am used to.
I had a crystal-clear memory of childhood while I was lying in bed, listening to a playlist with Coheed & Cambria, My Chemical Romance, and Circa Survive on the iPod. When I was little, I had a short best friendship with a girl named Caroline. She lived one street over. She was a terribly gutsy and mature person, who made for great company. I was the goofy sidekick, and she was the Nancy Drew. It was great.
One day, we were standing in the alley between our backyards, talking and laughing, when her brother Terry came limping up, holding his pants-legs above his shins. They were covered in lots of bloody cuts, long and diagonal. The blood ran down his legs and onto his shoes and the ground. His teeth were white as he grimaced and Caroline ran to him in slow-motion. He hissed and she screamed his name and I never heard anyone say someone else's name like that. She loved him fiercely and helped him into the yard, then to their house.
Everything in my head was red and red and red. The air was cool and I could feel the weave of texture of the denim of my jeans, the give in my sneakers as I climbed the big wooden fence into our backyard. It was red. I went inside and sat in my room until dinner and never told anyone about it. I was probably 9 or so.
I could see all these things very clearly, recall them carefully. I could see myself, but as if I stood very close to my back, like I was half inside and half outside myself. I can feel two noses in my memory, somehow. One of me has an itch on the right side of my face, a strange brushlike sensation on my shoulder.
Circa Survive's "Your Friends Are Gone" comes on and I have tears on my cheeks, then they're gone. I've fallen asleep and awakened. The Hub's in the living room, watching TV, the cat's snoring.
Work schedule's changed, so I'm off Sundays and Mondays. Shelving crew's fairly dismantled, so we start at 9am and stay later in the day. I'm wrung dry by the time I start, since I get up around 6.30 or 7, and quite cross by the time I leave in the late afternoon. There's almost nothing I enjoy at work these days and very few perks. I'm trying to figure out what color my parachute is. I've already taken the Strong Interest Inventory and a battery of aptitude tests. I'm trying to cross reference the lists and find things in common. The aptitude tests skew heavily to Business, Clerical, and Logic, followed closely by Social.
I think the career requiring the shortest amount of training and education was Embalmer.
I'm still tired, the headaches are either back or a result of the med withdrawal. The shocky sensations don't happen nearly as often, but I'm still anxious and my thoughts are scattered, plod along, and my spelling requires more attention than I am used to.
I had a crystal-clear memory of childhood while I was lying in bed, listening to a playlist with Coheed & Cambria, My Chemical Romance, and Circa Survive on the iPod. When I was little, I had a short best friendship with a girl named Caroline. She lived one street over. She was a terribly gutsy and mature person, who made for great company. I was the goofy sidekick, and she was the Nancy Drew. It was great.
One day, we were standing in the alley between our backyards, talking and laughing, when her brother Terry came limping up, holding his pants-legs above his shins. They were covered in lots of bloody cuts, long and diagonal. The blood ran down his legs and onto his shoes and the ground. His teeth were white as he grimaced and Caroline ran to him in slow-motion. He hissed and she screamed his name and I never heard anyone say someone else's name like that. She loved him fiercely and helped him into the yard, then to their house.
Everything in my head was red and red and red. The air was cool and I could feel the weave of texture of the denim of my jeans, the give in my sneakers as I climbed the big wooden fence into our backyard. It was red. I went inside and sat in my room until dinner and never told anyone about it. I was probably 9 or so.
I could see all these things very clearly, recall them carefully. I could see myself, but as if I stood very close to my back, like I was half inside and half outside myself. I can feel two noses in my memory, somehow. One of me has an itch on the right side of my face, a strange brushlike sensation on my shoulder.
Circa Survive's "Your Friends Are Gone" comes on and I have tears on my cheeks, then they're gone. I've fallen asleep and awakened. The Hub's in the living room, watching TV, the cat's snoring.
Work schedule's changed, so I'm off Sundays and Mondays. Shelving crew's fairly dismantled, so we start at 9am and stay later in the day. I'm wrung dry by the time I start, since I get up around 6.30 or 7, and quite cross by the time I leave in the late afternoon. There's almost nothing I enjoy at work these days and very few perks. I'm trying to figure out what color my parachute is. I've already taken the Strong Interest Inventory and a battery of aptitude tests. I'm trying to cross reference the lists and find things in common. The aptitude tests skew heavily to Business, Clerical, and Logic, followed closely by Social.
I think the career requiring the shortest amount of training and education was Embalmer.