I miss writing, I really do. I barely journal on paper anymore either. It makes me feel naked and exposed and vulnerable. It makes the thoughts solid and almost permanent. If I don’t write them down then it’s quite possible that they are fireflies in my imagination.
I’m in between jobs again. I’ve decided to return to the one that makes me crazy but pays me well, well enough to have medical benefits so I can see my shrink. Then I can get meds that make it possible for me to work at said job that makes me crazy in the first place. Vicious, infuriating cycle that pays the bills.
I had met a man that I’d wanted badly to be The One. I knew he wasn’t. He looked down on people with addictions. I talked too much too. Actually, I wasn’t fluffy enough and brought up too many controversial issues. He had some type of thinking phobia, maybe. Anyway, it hurt my heart for a solid two days when he said in so many words that I had some disturbing qualities and we were incompatible.
I’ve been dating a lot, actually. It’s pretty damn exhausting. I can’t possibly be expected to remember every stinkin’ detail about several different brand new people. I mix them up. Who likes coffee, who doesn’t like coffee, who has kids, who has dogs…Jesus. It’s pretty bad when you tell someone hey, I’d meet you for coffee but you don’t like coffee and they’re like, when did I say I didn’t like coffee? I love coffee! Eh. It hurts my brain, all of it.
My baby boy is leaving me soon to join the Marines. This makes me sad. I try not to think about it. I got emotional the day that we picked up his cap and gown. He’s a really big kid…over six feet tall and muscled. Girls like him. I hate that part. I hate tramps sniffing around my child. One day, one of these little skanks will replace me in his heart. He’ll have babies with her and shit. I hope he chooses wisely. For now, I’m the girl that he wants to snuggle with when he has a bad day. I’m the Mama!
It’s different with the girls. The girls are like my little sidekicks, my “allies in the family confederacy” I guess. Especially my oldest. She is like my rock. I can tell her anything. It’s cool now that she’s grown…she’s not just my daughter, she’s my friend too.
But back to what I need to do next. Get this job that brands me as a normal, functioning member of society so that I can pay bills in a timely fashion, have a damn savings account with money in it, and get my ass to the doctor. Not just the head doctor, but the boob doctor because damn the fuckin’ luck but that lump has returned. Again, something I try not to think about.
My new boss is texting me. I think she is ready for me to return to work already. It’s nice to feel needed sometimes.