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muckefuckIt's not even 11 o'clock and I'm already 0-2 for the day.
I must really love bleeding because I decided to pick a fight with the cat this morning and he gashed the tip of my pinkie. So I'm typing now with band-aids on both hands (plus one on my arm from a blood draw this morning). I feel even more like a shlimazzel from some dumb comedy.
He was being a dick anyway. Last night he was lying on the bed waiting for me to settle in and when I turned away from him to adjust the pillows, he attacked my bare buttock. That's pretty out of character for him. Then this morning as I was taking a dump, he went up to the door jamb and started pissing against the wall. Why? I have no idea. I literally just changed his litter twelve hours ago.
After that, I managed to show up to my annual physical more than twenty minutes late. Somehow I got it into my head it was at 9:30 a.m. rather than 9 a.m. I didn't realise my mistake until I was waiting for the bus at 8:56 and even then I thought I might just have recorded it that way in my calendar to give myself some leeway.
My doctor is invariably late anyway, even when I have an early appointment, so I didn't sweat it, figuring they'd manage to fit me in anyway even if I was late. And they did, though it means I have to return at 1:15 today. At least they did the blood draw so I could stop fasting. On the one hand, it kind of bugged me that I was being so blasé about fucking up, on the other I reassured myself by saying it was no big, it would work out anyway and it did.
I'm still wrestling to find a way to reliably motivate myself which doesn't rely on anxiety. That worked for the first half of my life, but at some point I realised that the penalty for most mistakes is at most a little inconvenience and embarrassment, and those are both things I can deal with. I used to be terrified at being caught out; at this point I'm resigned to it.
I must really love bleeding because I decided to pick a fight with the cat this morning and he gashed the tip of my pinkie. So I'm typing now with band-aids on both hands (plus one on my arm from a blood draw this morning). I feel even more like a shlimazzel from some dumb comedy.
He was being a dick anyway. Last night he was lying on the bed waiting for me to settle in and when I turned away from him to adjust the pillows, he attacked my bare buttock. That's pretty out of character for him. Then this morning as I was taking a dump, he went up to the door jamb and started pissing against the wall. Why? I have no idea. I literally just changed his litter twelve hours ago.
After that, I managed to show up to my annual physical more than twenty minutes late. Somehow I got it into my head it was at 9:30 a.m. rather than 9 a.m. I didn't realise my mistake until I was waiting for the bus at 8:56 and even then I thought I might just have recorded it that way in my calendar to give myself some leeway.
My doctor is invariably late anyway, even when I have an early appointment, so I didn't sweat it, figuring they'd manage to fit me in anyway even if I was late. And they did, though it means I have to return at 1:15 today. At least they did the blood draw so I could stop fasting. On the one hand, it kind of bugged me that I was being so blasé about fucking up, on the other I reassured myself by saying it was no big, it would work out anyway and it did.
I'm still wrestling to find a way to reliably motivate myself which doesn't rely on anxiety. That worked for the first half of my life, but at some point I realised that the penalty for most mistakes is at most a little inconvenience and embarrassment, and those are both things I can deal with. I used to be terrified at being caught out; at this point I'm resigned to it.
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He's not coming back.
So you work it out, overfeed the cat.
And the plants are dry and they need to drink.
So you do your best. and you flood the sink.
Sit down in the kitchen and cry.
(Aftermath, REM)
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