Andare, Partire, Tornare

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Fucking wah

It's almost midnight, and somehow I can't bring myself to just go take my contacts out and go to bed already. Spent the evening watching Trading Spaces and While You Were Out, then cruising over to Television Without Pity for some snark action. But mostly it's just an attempt to hide the case of the blues that I've been emeshed in since this afternoon.

I am remarkably resentful about starting Sunday hours at the 'Mart. It's just running a cash register, so it'll be easier on my body than the dog bathing, but I hate having to give up my one free day a week because I can't fucking make ends meet. Or, I guess I should say, we can't make our ends meet. I'm trying hard to keep from being cranky at Bemo because he's only got one job, and that's not even full-time, but it's by-god difficult to do that when my sister is bringing me reports that my mother's angry that I have to work so many hours. (Note the "have" in that situation. It's because she feels Bemo should be providing for me. I have no problem earning more money than he does, but I have a big problem with the fact that he doesn't earn much at all. Therein lies the difference.)

And to make things worse, the other car is still in the garage, and while Bemo has talked to the mechanic, I feel like I'm getting mixed stories about what will happen and what should happen and what the best solution is, and blahdeblah. It's like one of those truly male-female communication gaps. I can see in his face that he's puzzled by some of my questions, and that he feels that he's giving the answers to my questions as best as he can. But I feel like the story keeps bouncing around between two or three scenarios and I'm not sure which one I should aim towards, if you see what I mean. Should we junk the car, see if the engine is salvagable, and sell it? But the car's not running and we don't know if the engine even runs anymore, until there's a diagnosis but then Bemo says there *is* a diagnosis. So basically I'm all confused, and that's not helping my stress levels either.

Basically this is me going "wah wah wah my life isn't perfect." And today, after I got home, I sat in the big comfy chair and stared up at the ceiling and thought, "Well - I live in a crowded townhouse that smells like cat pee because we have eight billion cats, one of whom has a piss-in-the-corners disfunction on occasion. But it's a roof over my head, and I have food, and a car that runs. More than most people have."

Yeah, I think you can imagine just how far that little bit of Chicken Soup for the Pauper's Soul went in making me fucking feel better.

11:51 p.m. - 2003-04-26

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