How might one obtain a license plate for the passive-aggressive state?
So I haven’t been to church in weeks. so I attended online services this morning PLUS I’m going to go to services live-and-in-person tonight. A double dose of Jesus couldn’t hurt right now.
The other night, I came home after 9 p.m. per usual, and went straight to my room, per usual. And the OEH texted that I could have my living room back. (As she had been in it when I flounced past without an acknowledgment.)
I replied back, “Don’t care about the living room. I want my HOUSE back.”
And she replied back, “I made pasta salad.”
Gotta love the state of passive-aggressiveness here. How does one register her car THERE?!?!
I just rented a storage unit, as this place is an avalanche of boxes that I am sick of looking at. I have gorgeous views of the Intracoastal and I can’t see ’em over the boxes. (And the closed vertical blinds, as I’m trying to keep the damn heat out.) I wonder whether it would be cruel to move the OEH into said storage unit — I would consider that 30 bucks a month a bargain for my sanity!
In attending online services today, we examined the Lord’s Prayer and the five stations of prayer. One was how you just have to keep forgiving people, the way you’ve been forgiven. See, this is where I have problems.
I’m not saying I’ve lived an exemplary life. Believe me, if there were some things (and some friends) I would have been smart enough to run screaming past, I’d go back and undo that shit in a heartbeat. But mostly, I’ve been ambling along, minding my own business … just trying to be a good person and a dutiful employee and otherwise attempt to not rain on anybody else’s parade.
Now, I know better than to think my life is terrible. I also know that it’s not the picture of grace and joy.
One thing I try to keep in mind is that I’m a good person, but maybe not a great one yet. If I do something slightly unholy, I figure I’m a better person than X. But I also know not to compare myself to a wretched piece of shit and, instead, I should compare myself to someone like Mother Theresa.
Like, WWGD? As in, What Would Gahndi do? And if that means go on a hunger strike, well, would that REALLY do my pudgy pork-roast butt any harm at this point?
So, beyond the “keep forgiving people” crap, as I’ve found that sometimes the only way to speak to people is to stop speaking to them ENTIRELY because they keep driving me NUTS, I found one other flaw in today’s sermon.
And that was the comment how many of us are on drugs to calm our nerves. That we clearly don’t believe enough in Jesus to take care of things.
Look, when I was dealing with all kinds of problems — perhaps bigger, albeit less-permanent than the ones I currently face — I had faith in God. I knew I couldn’t be unemployed forever, or that PsychoFailureFaggilicious had to run out of stupid ideas eventually. And maybe it took moving to Florida, but both problems are as solved as they can be. Woo hoo!
But that was the thing — the end may not have been in sight for either worthless situation, but I knew it would come eventually. And it did.
So here I am, starting to get kind of excited about life again. Like, it ain’t a dream job but it pays well and I have free time. And I’m starting to have faith that maybe there are single men under 50 out there worth getting to know. And maybe — and this is a BIG maybe — I might be amenable to the whole marriage and kids thing. Now, I don’t want to go out on a limb here, because that’s a HUGE development for me. But you know, I’m open to discussion. Which is a change from even six months ago.
In any case, I didn’t need meds back then. But I do now. And it’s truly because the OEH seems to think that this is permanent. That she’s entitled. That SO WHAT if I’m miserable — hey, at least she cleans the toilets and bakes, so what more do I want from her?
I think even Jesus would agree that the Paxil/Klonopin cocktail I ingest daily is keeping the homicide rate down, and that’s a GOOD thing!
Now I see why I drop out of church every now and again. I know their job is to show us the light and the truth and the way. And the truth hurts. No arguments there.
But what this yin-yang in the next room doesn’t realize is that the longer she wears out her welcome, the less-likely it is she’ll ever get a son-in-law or, gasp, a grandchild. Because I HATE sharing my space. HATE IT. There is no way in God’s green earth that any man will be moving in with me A) with her here, or B) even if she gets the fuck out of my space (into my storage unit?), I want my house back. I mean it.
I went to the eye doctor yesterday. Beyond the financial annoyance that Costco doesn’t take my insurance (I’ll submit it to my provider anyway. If I remember. Which, I never remember), I realized that masturbation really DOES make you go blind. God damn. They said I’d be pretty much fucked by age 38. My eyes themselves are healthy; my vision has just deteriorated off a cliff.
Time to get a new profession, one that doesn’t involve, oh, PUBLISHING?!?!
And that’s worrisome, you know? It’s like, bitch, get outta mah house. If I have two years to catch a man before I have to wear glasses 24 hours a day till the day I croak, can a girl have a lair where she can seduce her poor victims?
And then I think, fuck her. Seriously, fuck her. My house. I shouldn’t be hiding at my friend’s apartment when she’s out of town to enjoy the quiet. I should be bringing a parade of people through my house. I shouldn’t hide in my room. I should sit my stormcloud ass on my couch and command the remote.
I’d turn the TV off, BTW. I hate the TV. Silence is lovely. The TV is only on to keep people from feeling the need to TALK TO ME.
Hm. So yeah, at this point I’d have to pay for her to stay in a hotel if I have a guest here. So the solution is to get my own damn hotel. And what’s the fucking point of that when the view here is lovelier than any hotel I’ve ever stayed in? I’m literally watching a plane land at the airport as I type. THIS is what I’ve worked so hard for. And if my vision goes and, in turn, my career goes, well then won’t we all be out on the streets?
At least we’ll be together, she says.
*head—>desk*
That’s what I’m afraid of. I can think of worse people to spend my future with. (I’d type the name again but I’m aware of the “Beetlejuice” effect.) And I really don’t want to spend the rest of my life alone.
But I also don’t want to spend it medicated because I have to numb my basic impulses to A) knock the Jesus freaks upside the head with their “forgive everybody BUT you are not a good Christian if you are on the psychotropic hayride yourself, and B) to duct-tape someone to a surfboard and push them out to sea.
This is why I need two doses of church today, I guess!