Rereading my last few entries has led me to believe that I REALLY shouldn’t blog when I’m manic.
I normally write somewhat terribly here (compared to my fan fic, work, etc.), but wow.
I fucked up loose/lose and that’s one of my BIGGEST pet peeves. And that whole thing about my Subie?
What. The. Fuck.
I would never, normally, call my Subaru a Subie. It’s a Bubaru. Always has been since the woman fucked up saying ‘Subaru’ during my very first Subaru’s very first oil change. Always will be.
For a car that survived high school, college, and the move to Ohio (so what, 10 years?), we saw a lot of things, lived through even more, and THAT’S still one of my top ten memories.
That says a lot, doesn’t it?
——
Any way… calmer emotions, a quieter head, today.
It’s good - I need to recharge before heading to NY tonight. Annie will be crushed. I’m staying with her brother and his girlfriend, but C offered first and I’m looking forward to getting to know her a little better.
I’ve needed the release of a good night, with good music, and better people in a while. This show couldn’t have come at a better time. I don’t care that we’re going back to NY in two weeks for Annie’s wedding… I NEED to be in upstate tonight like I need to breathe air.
——
Feeling better about work. It kind of ebbs and flows. I’m worried I’ve made the wrong choice still, and I know that’s my stupidity. I’m perfectly capable of doing this job. They love me. There are things I want to do there to really make everyone’s life easier. Month end’s not rocket science…
I know this is residual from the last job that didn’t work out because weeks 3 and 4 were when all hell broke loose then. Week three was not a good week (mania…), but that’s not directly job related so I think I’m OK.
Besides, if anything, the perks make it more tolerable than most jobs I’ve held. Free lunches every day and I’ll never pay more than $59 for a hotel room as long as it’s within our parent brand’s properties. (And they own some VERY NICE brands that I would never stay at because of the pricing.)
OK. I should go pack…
Here’s to good friends, good music, and a good time in Weedstock!
I’ve not really kept my job search nervousness a secret, and this week it blew up in my face.
Big time.
Like I said earlier, my boss is not the type of person I learn well from. It’s caused a lot of frustration and I think I snapped at him the other day. I don’t remember… all I know is I called a different company during lunch and wanted to know if they were still interested in me. They are.
So. Yeah.
I was thinking about leaving my new job to start another new job because I wasn’t sure I made the right decision and panicked.
Yesterday, I don’t know what happened, but it was like he knew.
He was great to deal with. He asked me if I was happy. He was fun. We bonded.
We talked about pr0n.
What? Don’t most people talk about pr0n with their boss during their second week at a new job?
Shit, on my fourth day in, I said I had to turn off my vibrator. (My cell phone wouldn’t stop vibrating - I was getting a shit ton of text alerts from the Weather Channel.)
(OH! How about writing “Ass Controller” instead of “Asst. Controller”? That kept me laughing today. Too bad he wasn’t in the office to know that. I also fell off my chair twice.)
So… now I’ve managed to go from hating this job and wanting to leave to loving it and wondering what the fuck is wrong with me.
see? moffat! (i think sue won the interwebs with that tweet…)
I hate when I get like this… it’s anger flavored mania. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does?
Look. The. Fuck. Out.
I had to go out today, against my better judgement. Of course, “ya cahn’t get theyah frum heeah” is never more true than in the summer. (I think I just slaughtered my grandmother’s Maine accent…)
I had to go to Rite Aid and pick up a prescription and some other stuff. While I’m waiting in line to pay, the woman in front of me is buying almost $200 worth of shit. AT A RITE AID. (It’s a pharmacy/convenience store… they’re not made for huge grocery purchases, you know?)
It’s obvious she’s a tourist. Everything about her screams it. Everything.
So she finally pays and leaves the store. The cashier looks at me and apologizes. Because, of course, they’re short-staffed today. Why not?
I couldn’t help myself and with my snark on full-blast, I said “It’s the price we pay for living here. All we do is wait for tourists to get out of our way on 95, Route 1 or the local Rite-Aid.”
The guy behind me choked back a laugh and the woman behind him (I think) said, “Amen!”
I know, I know…
I CHOSE to live here, but when there’s really only two ways to get from point A to point B and they’re full of moron tourists, it gets really hard for me to keep my shit together.
Then again, moments like watching the douchebag from Nova Scotia bottom out in a parking lot and break his trailer hitch almost made it worth being cut off by him…
The story is a sad one, told many times… the story of my life in trying times.
I’m reading a (painfully slowly updated) Cabin Pressure fan fiction full of Martin!whump. Basically, he’s all depressed and suicidal and Douglas comes to the rescue. While the author is talented, and the story is decent, I feel like they don’t get depression. Especially a suicidal depression.
You can’t just bounce back from wanting to kill yourself / jumping off a bridge as quickly as Martin seems to. At least, I can’t. It takes time, love, patience, love, and time. And patience. Did I say that already?
While I don’t want the author to have ever gone through what I have, I do believe in writing what you know. Research can only take you so far.
I’m not saying that I’m writing what I know (hello! gay sex!), but I’m touchy about people who write about mental illness. And yes, I’m a bazillionty hundred thousandy percent that there are gay men reading fan fic written by women who probably get pissed at unrealistic portrayals, too. Actually, I know for a fact that a gay guy took the time and wrote a guide on gay sex for fan fic authors… and I’m not ashamed to say I have it bookmarked. Just in case I want to pull a lemon out of my citrus pocket.
(I always feel like I need to preface shit like that with: “Pot. Kettle. Got it. Movin’ on.”)
But since I feel like the internet’s poster child for mental illness in my corner of the world, I want everyone to know exactly what it feels like to be suicidal. To plan the day you’re going to kill yourself. To face rushing water under a bridge and prepare to jump. I don’t want it glossed over which is what a lot of fiction writers do…
We’re never going to get the understanding, love, time and patience we need until people KNOW, until they get that punch in the gut that clues them into the fact that it’s not all in a depressed person’s head.
That this is real.
That this is painful.
That it fucking sucks.
I hate Martin!whump. I hate whump in all forms, so I’ll never write it, but damn, some days I want to.
