Deep Thoughts

I'm sitting here in my office chair at folding table in what should be my dining room if I owned a table and suite of chairs that were purpose built for the act of dining.

In what should have been the living room Joe has built himself a fortress of maths and algorithms and folding banquet tables from Target. He has gone to the library to take out three books that he will read during his two week break before the start of his fall semester.

I've got a shot of bourbon chilling with three ice cubes in a Old Fashioned glass I got from the Dollar Tree shortly after we moved in. I'm rationing the remainder of this bottle of Wild Turkey 101 because you can't get it in Canada at all, and I'm not sure my next trip to the US of longer than 48 hours is going to have the budget to replace it.

But I'm hopeful.

Except for the little desk lamp that Joe left on before he left, it's mostly dark. I am just sipping my bourbon and trying to figure out where I stand on a whole bunch of issues that have just come to light.

There's a big long story to this, wherein my boss is both the victim and the accused. I understand why it happens, but I don't think that being abused is an excuse for becoming an abuser. I'm not comfortable in my own skin anymore, mostly because I've decided what I want to do, what I should do that's right for me, and I'm being held back, waiting for more information and permission. And money.

It's always about the money.

I had a big long post here about what's going on, but it really doesn't matter in the specific. In the general, I'm really unhappy with just about everything. Everytime I have a glimmer of hope that things are going to be better, it gets trampled, postponed, cancelled, or otherwise made "not a priority" by someone in power.

I'm tired. The bourbon worked.

Goodnight.

< rant >

IT IS TOO FUCKING SUNNY ALL THE FUCKING TIME

***

Feels like thirty-five
IN LATE AUGUST. Fuck this shit.
Fuck. it. in. the. ear.

***

See what I did there?

***

I have so much to do. I have lists of things, but it's stupid hot and I hate it here and I don't really give a shit that the toilet needs scrubbing or that my business plan isn't going to edit itself or that my boss is doing fucking creepershit trying to find out if he can watch while I fuck his wife.

***

(The answer is "FUCK OFF, YOU'RE MY BOSS")

*shudder*

Thankfully he's in Europe until next Friday. Then I'm taking three days off after the long weekend to re-evaluate my life.

***

< / rant >

This time last year

Today marks the first anniversary of the last time I saw my maternal grandmother alive.

She was mostly incoherent, and at times I'm not sure she remembered who I was. She was happy most of the time. In an instant she would change to horribly angry then to weeping sadness and then back again.

My grandma, the grandma from two years before she went into the home, was awesome.

The woman who died in December 2012 was just a shell of her former self. I don't miss her. I'm glad that that woman is out of pain, no longer a victim to her failing cardiovascular system that stole her mind.

I miss my grandma, a lot. I wish I could talk to her.

I got this thing...

I don't normally ask Doctor Internet about symptoms, ESPECIALLY MS symptoms, but this has got me kind of weirded out, so I thought I would see if any of my other MSers had anything like this.

If I talk for more than about 10 minutes, just like back and forth in a normal conversation, I start straining for volume and pitch. I actually have to work to form words, and keep my voice audible. Talking becomes *exhausting* and full of effort.

Now, if you know me... talking is kind of my thing. I can talk forever. I used to never shut up.

This turn of events is kind of a big deal. It's been going on for a month or so.

Part of me wonders if it's just lack of use. I don't work very much, I don't have any friends locally, I "talk" to pretty much everyone in my life by typing to them. This also includes Joe, because he's not home a lot and when he is he's like linear algebra and C programming 24/7.

I don't really talk anymore, or at least not even half as much as I used to, and my body just isn't used to it when it happens.

The other part of me wonders if this is a new MS symptom and I'm going to be unable to walk or see or stay awake in a few weeks.

Because that's always a possibility.

***

Apparently, I'm not going to get any Adderall until I am sleeping more than 12 hours at a time.

So there goes my plans for that legal addiction.

***

I have the teensiest amount of hope that I will have a steady liveable income by the beginning of next month. But it won't be at my current job, and I'm okay with that.

Again, again, again!

Today I fucked around playing clicky games on Facebook until the reminder(s) I set up on my phone could be ignored no longer.

I want to start the habit of writing daily, one that I have stopped and started twice over the past year. It got trashed when we traveled for two weeks last August, and then again when we were in panic mode to get the fuck out of Vancouver in 6 weeks.

I think that I have found a bit of my groove here in Windsor, and I'm trying to prevent that groove from becoming a rut.

So I'm using 750words.com to track my daily writing. Some days I know I am going to type "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." five hundred and eleventy times. Some days I'm going to try to race myself to the 750 words and hope my typing OCD doesn't stop me.

I'm also using a book called "A Year of Writing Dangerously" that I picked up for some inspiration. I read Day 1 today, and on Sunday (and every Sunday for the next 52 weeks) I will use a prompt from the 52 prompts conveniently located in the back of the book.

This year I will finish my atheist memoir.
This year I will finish my organizing/productivity book, which is a delightful irony. I am having difficulty organizing and finishing a book on organizing and productivity. I could laugh.

I'm also using two writing tricks from Ernest Hemingway.

Stop writing while I still have an idea and flow.
Write drunk. Edit sober.

(I'm actually kidding about the last one.)

(But only a little.)

(I'll probably try it once.)

(I'll try it more than once.)

(A week.)

I also need to find a cheap motel room out by a highway that I can rent for a week and try to write a book in a week. I don't deal well with cabins in the woods, as bugs, dirt, and wildlife ain't my bag.

A cheap motel room, some handheld food (fruit, cheese, bread, protein shakes, Italian meats), a bottle of Wild Turkey, a fridge that makes ice, a vintage hi-ball glass, my teapot and my two favourite Twinings blends, three pairs of pajamas, and my laptop. Bang out 7,000 to 10,000 words a day. Use StayFocusd to keep me from fucking around playing clicky games on Facebook instead of writing.

That would be a good week.

I hope I can afford it sooner rather than later.