I hate when this happens, but the birthday actually turned out fairly alright. Not that I hate having a good day, but I hate throwing a big ol’ fuss and then everything turning out well, because then I just look like a dumb. And I hate looking like a dumb.
A little bit of shopping at Walmart—though I didn’t get anything despite seeing quite a bit that I liked, I just enjoyed getting to dress up and hang out with my mumma. I just can’t feel comfortable in letting people buy things for me, especially when I know there’s no real money—and then an early dinner at IHOP. Yummm.
Ignoring the eleven back-to-back phonecalls from my sister, it was a good day.
And I looked ridiculously cute.
Yup, I jinxed it.
I’m gunna rant now.
Which means go away.
Rated M for mature.
Explicit language all over the place.
. . .
It is 3:20 in the morning and I’m having to do laundry because trusting the puppies in my bed led to getting fucking pissed on. And I had an alarm set, and now suddenly it’s off and I don’t remember it ringing in the first place, but that would have been the time to take them out so I did NOT get pissed on for my birthday, but oh boy – if it can go wrong, it WILL go wrong.
What. Have. I. Done. That is so damn horrible?
How have I been such a rotten person to have so much going wrong at once?
W2s lost in the mail so I lose three and a half months of work. Flat tires and speeding tickets. People demanding this and people demanding that. People stealing from me. People dismissing me because I just fucking bitch about everything, so let’s not turn off any damn lights before we go to bed because the rest of the world will pick up after me and it’s not like I’m going broke over damn light bills. And not being good enough because I don’t drink because I’m just the fucking fifth wheel.
It is just going to be a good day if I can get through to the end without killing myself or killing someone else.
And I have to get up before 6 in the morning on Thursday so I can drive everyone around and we need gas and I just want to hide and have nothing to do with anything. I need an exponential amount of Valium.
Happy fucking birthday to me.
Oh, it’s been a busy and stressful handful of days.
Just a mess of things that I normally must do happening to fall within a short span of time, along with Murphy’s Law well at work. If it can go wrong, it will go wrong.
A busy Thursday with laundry and baths for the puppy, and managing to juggle it so a dirty pup doesn’t end up on clean bedding or dirty bedding ends up contaminating a clean pup. Not to mention a shower of my own and washing my own bedding. Easy enough; it’s all about getting in the right order. Timing is key.
I haven’t had a Friday off since July—and this one was no different as I was asked to work, making it a five day week. There’s a new girl there, flipping the trigger on my anxiety. Also, my tire blew up in the parking lot, forcing me to crawl on a spare to the tire clinic right away, before I’d even managed to work out what my wallet looks like after all these bills eat away my paycheck. That’s a pain. But the silver lining is that I now know how to change a tire, which seems like an important skill to have.
I don’t even remember Saturday. But it was a long and disorganized day.
Sunday was excruciatingly long and it started with my first speeding ticket. And I got to work with the new girl, and I like her well enough. She’s extraordinarily nice and we’ve got quite a bit in common—but she gets blatant preferential treatment that sort of gets under my skin. I had to work up to the hours I’ve gotten, to the knowledge I’ve had, to simply have my name put into the computer system, but she’s got it all right away. It’s got me confused and it stings a bit.
I’ve struggled to maintain my writing along with caring for the puppies. I’ve got them getting accustomed to their leashes and they’re fine with their collars (though I’d like to get them harnesses instead.) I’m working on the ‘sit’ command. They’re taking well to the crate. They also made it through another week. 10 weeks old today! I also restarted my knitting project at least twice more today, finished my second book of the year and started a third.
There was a police checkpoint where I accidentally took my foot off the brake while reaching for my license and almost hit the car in front of me. I’m having bad luck with troopers.
My 23rd birthday is tomorrow. I’ve nagged my mother for ages about her tendency to never request my birthday off—and she finally did it this year, but now I’ve been called into work. There’s also been such issues with getting my W2s that we’ve not yet been able to do our taxes, so we don’t even have any money to be able to afford to celebrate my birthday. But it’ll be another five day week, so my next paycheck should be a good one. (If only the paycheck meant to pay a giant electric bill had been the good one.) I’ve also decided to fuck crate training for today and let the puppies snuggle me for the night.
Here’s to better luck coming because we can only go up from here.
I just jinxed it.
To do: knit more. Read more. Write more—catch up, fill more applications. More poetry, more short stories. Book reviews. Pay the bills, figure out the finances. Advertise on the Avon page more. Get things done and take no shit. Just a lot of more more more.
We’re 9 weeks old today!
We’ll be starting collar and leash training soon. And we’re also old enough to begin learning a few basic tricks—sit, lay down, drop it, stuff like that. We should also begin learning to come when we’re called, which should make mom real happy since we don’t really listen to her all that much right now (especially Trace.)
We’re still not house-broken yet, so mom’s having to get off her lazy bum to take us out roughly eleven times a day, but we’re very familiar with the door that brings us back inside!
We’re lucky that we’re so damn cute, mom says.
So, this was yesterday. Horrible to be out in, to drive and to work, or to have shoes with poor traction, but it was so unbelievably gorgeous. I love this phenomenon.
I hope to make today a writing day. I want to write up a list of book recommendations from my reading spree last year. I’d like to tackle a couple articles, earn some extra pennies to bring myself closer to being able to request a check. And I ought to bring my plotting juices to a simmer and post in a couple shipper threads.
I should also work on the budget, pay bills and sift through receipts.
Filled up the gas tank. $40.
I remember days of feeling stressed because I was never caught up, there was always something that needed my attention—and now I’m struggling even to be noticed. At least the block seems to be lifted for the moment and I may avoid another burn-out if I can cope with being small fish again.
The last week or so has been stressful, anxious and absolutely exhausting. I can’t even honestly say why. I think I’m just crazy.
Though recently, I do know the crankiness has been due to lack of sleep. I adopted puppies.
Trace (on the right,) Anglo-Saxon: Brave. He’s an introvert. Rather dopey. He was the first to wander outside the confines of the bedroom though.
Kane (on the left,) Irish: Fighter. He plays rough. He’s excitable. He’s a mama’s boy, always by my side or trying to crawl into my lap—and he’s a bully. I could give them each a toy and he’d still go to steal from his brother.
I get sleep in bursts of maybe three hours at a time. It’s made me irritable and impatient, more so than I am usually. House training has been difficult, especially with the weather being the way it’s been. Hard to set up a routine of going outside when it’s raining, or iced over, or just generally freezing our tails off. I’m constantly looking up tips and tricks and schedules, and I still feel like I’m doing everything wrong. On top of it all, they’ve dealt with upset stomach, primarily because I couldn’t get a straight answer on what they were being fed prior to my ownership of them and so I had no choice but to suddenly change their food. And there’s been worms. And fleas.
Sometimes, I just want to cry. Most times, I do. But I’ve always been ridiculously emotional; the only option at this point is to carry on forward, try my best and hope for the best.
They’ll be eight weeks old tomorrow. Woot.
I think we’ll celebrate with a good bath.
There’s a fourth of July celebration
going off in her ribcage.
The bones swell in the summer heat.
A Sunday morning laziness
lives in her busted smile,
and she slides music from his throat
in the crumbled brick dust of someone else’s home.
There’s a rich golden glow
clogging up the air.
A fruit fly buzzing in her lungs
on the long road home.
Blood in her money,
salt under her nails
and the maggot squirm
beneath the kiss of gentle footsteps.
With a boiling midnight breath
sucking on her tongue,
coaxing up the bile of a long day done.