B a b y, ba by, b aby, this is the third part of the story.
Its the long-range pressure I don't do well with. I think its the waiting. I can't just do it all in one go, like a "don't-stop-adrenaline-pumping" sort of thing. I'm impatient, and long stretches of time with little to keep my mind on make me anxious. Especially when I'm in a stressful situation that I have to get myself through, but have to wait to do so. I don't like the waiting. It gives me time to think.
I am moving again. It feels absurd this time, like a bullshit move. Our landlords got upset about the dog, getting rid of it was not an option, Joel gave them our 30 days. Its better this way, really. Maybe she'll get a yard, and we won't have the Mexican neighbors blaring horrible Mexican music at all hours of the night. But it feels ugly, like I sat in gum on a leather car seat in the middle of summer. My white thigh pulling at the gum that is attaching me to this hot, sticky, black leather seat.
When I got back from New York, for the second time, toward the end of March, I was tired. I'd spent so much time in New York packing - packing my Mother - packing my Mother to move to Latham, where the rest of my family is. She's not happy about it, but she is, she doesn't know, let's go back and forth until its over. By the time I'm in my new apartment here, she'll be in a new place with my Uncle, there.
These are the things they don't tell you about in Chicken Soup for the Soul.
Now I get to pack again, each time I whittle down my things to smaller and smaller piles. Memories I would have kept, if I had the space to keep them in. I thought this worked the other way around.
I'm trying to fill out this form, see, because I have to go to college, see, in Los Angeles, in August, see, but it says, "PERMANENT MAILING ADDRESS" see, and I don't have one, see, because I don't know where I'll be next week, see, and my Mom, see, she's crazy.
I am moving again. It feels absurd this time, like a bullshit move. Our landlords got upset about the dog, getting rid of it was not an option, Joel gave them our 30 days. Its better this way, really. Maybe she'll get a yard, and we won't have the Mexican neighbors blaring horrible Mexican music at all hours of the night. But it feels ugly, like I sat in gum on a leather car seat in the middle of summer. My white thigh pulling at the gum that is attaching me to this hot, sticky, black leather seat.
When I got back from New York, for the second time, toward the end of March, I was tired. I'd spent so much time in New York packing - packing my Mother - packing my Mother to move to Latham, where the rest of my family is. She's not happy about it, but she is, she doesn't know, let's go back and forth until its over. By the time I'm in my new apartment here, she'll be in a new place with my Uncle, there.
These are the things they don't tell you about in Chicken Soup for the Soul.
Now I get to pack again, each time I whittle down my things to smaller and smaller piles. Memories I would have kept, if I had the space to keep them in. I thought this worked the other way around.
I'm trying to fill out this form, see, because I have to go to college, see, in Los Angeles, in August, see, but it says, "PERMANENT MAILING ADDRESS" see, and I don't have one, see, because I don't know where I'll be next week, see, and my Mom, see, she's crazy.