Invincible, more or less
I find myself waxing poetic about Ye Olde Workplace Establishment. To anyone who will listen, really. Often.
And hell, yesterday I found myself missing the Boob Twins and the Crack Den. Not in the sense that I’d want to go back. More along the lines of, wow did those places suck but I thought my days of wanting to die ended when I left.
Speaking of wanting to die, I spent the whole day Friday with a migraine and a stomachache. Which masked the anxiety nicely till the stomachache went away. Four Advil and three Klonopin later, I OWNED THAT SHIT. As usual. Even near death, I rock.
Meanwhile Evil Landlady II is just as bad as the first. We’re arguing over everything — the rent increase (which I REFUSE to pay), the problems at this Brokedown Palace (which she REFUSES to believe), her new war on my hair product (God forbid we fix the sparking plugs or the washer that makes the house smell like dry-roasted ass; the paint I use to cover up my hair problem dirtied up the top of the bathroom door and I MUST BE EVICTED FOR IT.)
Oh what else, the cars still suck. One needs brakes and the serpentine belt (and six other things) are about to go on the one I do drive.
And don’t ask about Mom. Hate to say, she’s stressing me out THE LEAST.
God, I know so many people have it worse. But why oh why does my life never actually change for the better as I get older?