square pants
It's a spongy feeling: complete saturation. There are no leaks, there is no time for leaks, just absorbing and cleaning up after the messes and moving on. There is a point before utter breakdown, where on the verge of tears I feel like a sponge. Overfull, water molecules straining via capillary action to fill every pore and push out out out on my framework. Post-sob is feeling wrung out, still exasperated but twisted and at least somewhat stress relieved. I've been saturated without wringing for two full weeks, heading into the third and becoming more and more saturated without release. There's no time for release, no good; there is too much to do to submit to pointless heaves and dripping. There's an oil tank to fill, an old electricity bill to pay, money to collect from one deadbeat housemate to pay said bill, collecting money to pay the next and final round of bills and oil tank fillage, a fucking 12-bedroom mansion to clean in hopes of scraping together at least a little return on our deposit, a festival to book, volunteers to wrangle, lusts to manage, a job to work, new housing to find (it's becoming extremely desperate, options keep dropping out from under me, and it's becoming more and more likely that I will have to move back home), and the general basic stresses of just just just living. Period.
There are one thousand strings of embroidery floss in two hundred different colors tied to my back, pulled taut, and I need to cut cut cut.
There are one thousand strings of embroidery floss in two hundred different colors tied to my back, pulled taut, and I need to cut cut cut.