So, it’s Trash Tuesday in Summit Hill. The loudest day of the week by far; the homeless argue over the goods tossed by the more fortunate. alley drivers swerve suddenly to avoid overturned bins and thrift revelers, the trash people and recycling people exchange glares and engine roars to establish territory, and this poor little girl rolls around in bed attempting to sleep. Which then leads to, for no explanation other than uninvited mental karma torture of which I cannot seem to control, No Sleep ‘Til Brooklyn repeating in my head, which dumbfounds me because I slept A LOT fucking better when I was actually IN Brooklyn with my bed hog of a girlfriend and her 85 pound dog than I do in my own neighborhood on Trash Tuesdays.
(Side note: Which reminds me, my parents are now reading this blog. Which means I shouldn’t say things like “a lot fucking better” anymore because this is not the type of house I grew up in and it’s probably embarrassing to them. On the positive side, I can trust that they know who I am talking about in Brooklyn, and that they know that this is not a girlfriend girlfriend situation. So, mom and dad, I’m sorry that sometimes I say fuck. And I’m even sorry for lying about that last sentence, because I actually say it a lot, although I try to keep it in my head. But at least I’m not apologizing for forgetting to tell you I was gay. Right?)
Anyways, after laying in bed for a while on random Trash Tuesdays, it becomes increasingly important to me to update you all on the mundane details of my life. And when this post suddenly ends, well, I have gotten too sleepy. And you really should be getting back to working for your pay, anyways.
The most recent joy I have experienced was deciding to quit smoking the exact same week that my job decided to not pay me in full for all of my hours worked. Which, mind you, was two pay periods ago now. So that timing was phenomenal. However, I have funneled my nicotine deficiency and simmering rage into some amazingly evil correspondence to the payroll department, of which I am rather proud, if I do say so myself.
And, luckily, while not this situation exactly, I predicted some form of obstacle at some point. So I spent an entire 90 minutes at work one Friday about a month ago (pre-fiend era) printing off pictures of people literally laying in hospital beds dying of cancer. I then thought it best to plaster them onto my refrigerator. Clearly. But so far, success. I almost feel like I should name these people or something, although I can’t explain how that is either logical or not creepy.
Also related: other than a desperate handful of Cool Ranch Doritos at work last night, plastering your fridge with cancer really leaves no desire to eat anything but vegetables. Which, to be honest, has mostly only made me realize how badly the bathroom door needs repainting. And then this suddenly turns into an “If You Give A Mouse A Cookie” situation that you will quickly realize you don’t want to know anything more about. So we’ll just stop here. You’re welcome.
Moving on. I am 90% sure have found my next place of residence, and it’s a 180 degree change from the dump that I live in now. (Why do people say 360 degrees? It makes no sense.) Okay, this place is more a dump of frustration and annoyances than literally falling apart, but sometimes my upstairs neighbor’s shower DOES leak into mine, so I’m not being entirely dramatic here. I will obviously always love this apartment in a way, and it definitely served it’s purpose, which I have mentioned here and here, but, like all good things in life, when it’s time you just know. And it’s exciting.
Now, I haven’t seen the place, which I need to make an appointment to do. But if it looks anything like the pictures online, all my chips are in. I drove to it the other morning, an early Sunday when the streets were bare, and drove 5 miles an hour around the nearby blocks, taking in all that I could walk to in a few minutes time. I pictured myself on those streets without any effort at all. I realized that, while I may not jump in head first all the time, and I definitely can’t do it as much with people and job situations as I would sometimes like, I am glad that I still have that ability in some aspects of my life. And while I don’t imagine losing that aspect of myself, I still made a mental note to exercise it from time to time, because it seems like the kind of thing that may just be gone before you know it. Something that you really never willingly lose, but once you do you aren’t ever sure how to get back. Or maybe that’s just me.
And happily, it’s March, I suddenly realized this when I saw a stuffed rent box. So I guess I missed a New Month Eve party. And I’m okay with that. They pack more punch when scheduled a few months in between anyways.
In other final random musings:
I finished season seven of The Office, and, for the first time in my life, was disappointed in Will Ferrell.
I bought a candle scented Suede Blanc from Patina, and, although, with a gun to my head I couldn’t tell you what the hell Suede Blanc smells like, you need this candle. Yes. Yes you do.
I had a second massage from the lady I first detailed here, increasing the number of people in this world who are allowed to touch me with more than fingertips to approximately…..seven. It was a big day.
My two goals big for March are to 1) not burn down my apartment and 2) to not pee my pants. After a candle making lesson in my kitchen and three days at the Xcel for the WCHA Final Five, I will update you on how well this was accomplished. Or post pictures of the failures. Even though I know this means you’ll probably be secretly be hoping for the failures.