I have TOO MANY JOBS. Also just Oprah. But mainly the jobs. [Note: Cut out a longish rant about reading Oprah Magazine; maybe should let all my posts stew in drafts for weeks before publishing] I'd been carrying around this cold fear in the bottom of my tummy area that I wouldn't be able to find a job and then I couldn't afford to live amidst the skyscrapers and dollar pizzas. And part of me kept returning to that fear and finding it a relief. Part of me was nurturing my fear, cuddling it like a little baby kitten and feeding it kitten treats and snuggling its soft kitten furs and doing all I could to encourage it to stay, Stay little fear kitten, and live inside of me forever, because as long as I am busy catering to you I am not doing anything that might require, you know, anything. And this particular fear kitten had/has a lot of components; living in a place that is absurdly expensive on a less-than-reliable income, living with/entering into financial situations with bfffffffles and potentially putting strain on the bfffffl status, living close to someone I think I might like to the point where I really ought to just try and find an internship in an antacid factory because nausea, etc.
And then I got offered a full-time job and I took that shit, even though my intention was to work only enough hours to finance my quasi-adult summer. My intentions were garbage though because, as you know or maybe did not know because you do not listen when I tell you things and/or you are maybe not so good at reading in between lines and making inferences, I am not the most awesome at money and forgot that I have kind of a major trip to make/pay for in October, I have to buy a new computer, and I have to pay for like nine wedding presents. So between selling folks eleven dollar miracle elixirs/building folks fancy free-range sandwiches/learning kitchen Spanish, snuggling the faces off my lady frands, and batting my eyelashes in the general direction of trouble I forgot the internet was a thing again.
This is a quiet moment, a type of moment that I do not have an abundance of right now, and so I am thinking. And what I am thinking is this: How many times in one day is too many times to go to the bodegs? What was the mom in Mommy Dearest's problem with wire hangers? (I just finished hanging all of my clothes on some; they are happy to not have to live in a suitcase anymore but I hope wire hangers aren't somehow worse.) Does running around for nine hours and sometimes picking up marginally heavy things = gym membership? Is that smell the new candle I contributed to the coffee table or my deodorant? How long have I had to pee for, because I feel like a second ago I didn't have to go at all and now I REALLY HAVE TO GO.? How many episodes of Teen Mom 2 is it okay to watch in a row? Is working all day an excuse for bad TV behavior? How about the fact that no one else is home and so it will remain your secret shame? Should I put a picture in this post?
I just lost twenty minutes on weheartit. I'm going to pee and if on that journey I somehow accidentally wind up in the corner store buying more string cheese and chocolate milk then that just is what it is and you can save your disdain for someone who doesn't spend forty-five hours a week at the gym. OKAY.
