![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
It'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.
Tags: