Mar. 26th, 2010

thejunipertree: (Default)
I'm taking the day off tomorrow, which is amazing in and of itself. I never take days off from work. My attendance used to be quite bad, but it's like a switch went off in my head one day and suddenly I'm all Little Miss Responsible Adult. Sucks to your ass-mar, this is bollocks.

At any rate, I've got a day off tomorrow. I've a notion to get my ass to the West Windsor campus of Mercer so I can get my goddamn transfer business sorted, in an effort to actually start funeral school this autumn.

The deadline is the end of the month and in true Tara-style, I put this shit off as long as I possibly could because that is just how I roll lately. Despite this looming over my brow, I'm finding it difficult to muster up enough energy to care. At dinner tonight with the Engineer, I said to him: "I really just don't give a fuck anymore." It surprised him. Hell, it surprised me.

But it also gave me an inkling of just how bad this lovely little depression I've mired myself in has gotten. Beyond my ongoing and not-getting-any-better cat drama, it's almost as if all of the wee stupid annoyances one comes across in daily life have formed themselves into some kind of gigantic Voltron of stupid. I'm tired of it.

The other day, I had driven to Starbucks to get an iced chai (my boss forced me to go treat myself). On the way back to the office, I opened my sunroof because the days have been good for that type of thing lately. At a stoplight, a convertible Corvette pulled up next to me. Ordinarily, I wouldn't have given it a second glace other than a vague wanker mumbled under my breath, but when this guy pulled away from the light, his license plate read PD CASH.

PD CASH. PAID CASH. As in "As a matter of fact, I did indeed produce cash moneys for this particular over-priced vehicle made from fiberglass and middle-aged men's tears." And the sheer arrogance of the entire concept filled me with so much RAWR that I found myself having a very strong flash of lobbing my cup of chai ever so gently out the sunroof of my car so that it would tumble through the air, land directly on his lap, and vomit half melted ice cubes of sweet milky tea all over him and the dash

Effing beautiful. The flash had such strength behind that I found myself unconsciously pacing alongside his car with mine, with my cup in hand. When I realized what was going on, I forced myself to put the tea back in the cupholder before things got too aggro. I think the caffeine and sugar in the chai hitting an empty stomach triggered a hyper-manic episode. I haven't had one of those in quite some time, so it felt alien for a bit until I remembered how to ride it out.

Hell. That would have been a perfect throw, too. Our cars were the perfect heights and space apart, not to mention the wind was working in my favor. I could have launched that baby, put two cars in between us, and get the hell out of Dodge before he even realized what was happening. hah.

Shades of Little Miss Responsible Adult again, I reckon.

It just shows me how bad my brain is fuzzing out, at least. Once I'm aware of it, I can take the steps to dial this shit the fuck back a notch. Or at minimum, make an effort to do so. I've been reading a lot lately in an effort to not get trapped in an endless cycle of obsessive worrying thoughts. Pet Semetary was probably not the wisest of choices, I admit, but following it up with Graham Joyce's new book, How to Make Friends With Demons pulled me out of that hole. I've got a few other books kicking around that I haven't read yet, but they're either just not quite doing it for me or are material that doesn't work well for escapism.

After so many years of trash-talking, I've been thinking about finally trying to read Dune, but I haven't been able to bring myself to buy it.


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January 2011

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