Per my traditional annual blog entry, this one is the last for this site. Two of you who subscribe will think “oh this still exists” and that is it. I’ll be making a written mess on another page soon, hopefully with more consistency.
It was fun to have some cocktails and use bad grammar and make vague inside-my-own head jokes for a few years but it probably wasn’t a terribly good use of time. Now I have even less free time and I’m armed with a master’s degree in communications so I will be able to make a quicker, more efficient mess.
The new site will have dancing! Laughing! Guest stars every week! Or it will be me, sitting in an old workshop in the basement, trying to hammer out a couple hundred words while Jack sleeps in order to keep my soggy brain from completely melting. And I produced a tiny human a year ago so while I cringe at the thought of being a “mommy blogger” he does provide a lot of life lessons that he just goes handing down. (See? That’s a thing from the show It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and it wouldn’t be funny or make any sense unless you’ve seen the show AND remember it enough to recognize it.)
Full disclosure, I may reuse some posts from here but make them ya know, readable. I intend to keep sharing when I do dumb stuff so don’t worry about a lack of new material either.
So I’m learning. Going as far as saying I’m growing is a stretch but at least it could be possible someday.
Maybe you giggled a little at some of the stories. Maybe you felt pity for me or whoever I interacted with. Maybe you realized they let unhinged people just roam freely around society, unchecked and unattended. (I’m referring to myself.)
I will leave you with the goodbye I gave my closest coworkers after departing my corporate job after six plus years:
*As soon as I wrote this, I felt better. I actually did manage a four-mile walk today and gave the dog a bath. The walk in the rain was super, for real. It felt good and cleansing and like maybe I’m a hippie now? I also started chipping away at my homework, like an adult. I was just going to leave this in my file folder but I’m gonna post it anyway because that’s what the Internet is for – being an open diary that no one cares about.*
Rant, rant, rant. What about this time, Kate? School.
I don’t have a lot of stick-to-it-ivness this time around. Why did I start? Because I can’t seem to get any interviews because the new hiring process goes through a web filter and I don’t have a degree in what I have done for a decade. So I get weeded out.
Aren’t you learning what you should know? Sorta. I’m learning theory and background, which were covered in the intro class. Cool, nine weeks was good. Let’s move on. Outside of deductions for improper MLA citation formatting, I receive very few points off for actual content. I have a 4.0. I don’t feel good about it. What the hell is wrong with you? WE DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THAT RIGHT NOW.
If you’re so damn smart then why don’t you just relax and take the easy grade? HAVE YOU MET ME? All I am working on is this giant chip on my shoulder of “I’m so smart so why don’t these dummies hire me” and it is real super. Clearly I am doing something wrong.
I am taking a full course schedule, so two classes every nine weeks. It’s online through a real school in St. Louis. Each week we are assigned three to four discussion questions per class. You make your initial posts then have to respond to everyone else, seven to nine times a week total. Let me tell you why this is a load of garbage.
First, instructors need to post ENGAGING topics. Using a question to ask about definition gets real stupid real fast. For instance, taking a term right out of the text and asking for the definition. Assuming the first person to post gets it correct, WTF is everyone else supposed to say? “Yeah, I agree you paraphrased the text correctly.” Get away from me.
Second, some people post dumb shit. Since you can’t convey tone as well through written communication, the best thing to do is ignore it. You can address someone’s bizarre or wrong answer but you will look like a straight-up dick. The program isn’t set up as a cohort but I have followed the same handful of people through for the past nine months. I corrected one lady’s historical inaccuracy regarding Rosinenbombers during the Soviet blockade of Berlin but that was it. (It really bothered me. I couldn’t let it go. Read a history book.)
Third, some people write NOVELS for their responses. Just a thought but since this is a communication program maybe you should learn to communicate succinctly. We had to turn in one project that needed to be 2,000 to 2,500 words and post them for others to read. One lady posted 4,500 WORDS. She clearly took materials she had from her job and copied and pasted it. That’s fine but none of the extra words provided any value. Made me crazy grumpy. Still does actually.
We know you work for Big Fancy Company because you mention it in EVERY SINGLE RESPONSE. Cool, bro, we get it. Thanks for imparting your superior knowledge on the rest of us. Let me slide this into my IDGAF file for ya.
So what am I doing instead of replying to discussion posts? Blabbering on ye olde blog, watching football, having a few cocktails, and refreshing social media accounts. I am the worst about just doing what I need to do if I deem it “boring” or “stupid.” I also have an assignment to do that is due tomorrow night. Don’t care right now.
It’s a good thing I pulled my pinkie finger nail completely back when I was putting on pants today because that fucking hurt and has distracted me for a bit. Maybe I’ll attempt a home manicure.
When you grow up in a big family with lots of siblings and not a lot of room, someone is always up in ya bizniz. There is always a sibling to “borrow” your shit. I wore uniforms in high school but I had a few things from Delia*s (yes, THAT Delia*s) and probably Goodwill since that was the cool thing in the 90s. Our middle sister, despite being a few inches shorter than me and differently endowed than me, would “borrow” my clothes all the time.
I finally learned to arrange my closet by color from white to black, then by sleeve length within each color. It was the only way I knew what was missing and set me up for a sweet case of future insanity. My closet was white tank tops to long sleeve black shirts and blouses. Riveting.
I’ve been unemployed for over a year now and have had time to stop and think about things, like what do I want to be when I grow up? So flash that forward to today, when I was laid up on the couch with a bad back (pulled it on Saturday like an idiot) and listening to You Made It Weird when Pete had Iliza Shlesinger as the guest. You can listen to it here.
They were talking about lots of silly things but also about authenticity and being real and you know what? The last decade of my career has been about doing the thing to make money – that’s it. Was I good at it? Moderately, depends on who you ask. Did I pay my bills? Yep, although now I’d like to punch younger me for wasting some of it but whatever. It served a singular purpose and that was making money to pay bills. One day you might wake up and realize you haven’t been doing what you love since you quit dancing when you’re 16.
WTF does this have to do with your clothes and your dumb career? Thanks for asking. I purged my closet today – really, truly got rid of everything that does not serve me anymore. I follow a delightful Canadian blogger/writer/thinking-person named David Cain and he recently completely purged his entire apartment in a systematic and thoughtful way. You know I didn’t follow anything systemically or thoughtfully.
So this afternoon after I saw the amount of mandatory discussion posts that are due this week for my classes I thought “let’s purge the closet instead.” And I did. What did I find?
FOUR pairs of black dress pants, exact same size and cut and a blue pair, same size and cut. GONE.
Tan blazer two sizes too small that is also missing a button. GONE.
A couple of business dresses that just made me sad looking at them. GONE.
Three completely different kinds of skirts that I have no use for right now and no foreseeable use for in the next year. GONE.
A bunch of shirts/blouses that I haven’t worn in over a year. GONE.
Four tank tops that get super stretched out the second you put them on. GONE.
Four (?) different kinds of purses/clutches/bags that I haven’t used in probably three years or more yet keep getting put into moving boxes and dragged along. GONE.
I also went through my make-up drawer in the bathroom vanity. FUN FACT: eye shadow with any kind of glitter makes my eyelids itch like crazy. I had FIVE little Bare Minerals eye shadow jars that I can’t wear. Why was I keeping them? Because I spent money on them and felt bad throwing them out. Well guess what? You can’t sell them back either. GONE.
How many duplicate make-up brushes did I have? About 32 million, for use with all the eye shadows I can’t wear because I’m probably allergic to them. GONE. *At least a dozen elastic, over-stretched, smelly headbands that I used to wear to the gym when I was crazy training. GONE.
(*Editor’s note – I don’t care how you interpret this sentence. I was training a lot aka “like crazy” but it also made me crazy hence training to be crazy so either way fits here. There is no preferred reading – MASTER’S DEGREE APPLICATION, ACTIVATE!)
See what I’m getting at here? I can’t use it and I can’t sell it so it has to go. Cain talks about holding onto things out of guilt and then we feel more guilt. YUP. I wrote myself a little reminder about how I don’t actually need any more new clothes (outside of a pair of black skinny jeans because I do) because now my closet only has things I LOVE. Get it? Some of the clothes that are in good shape will go to consignment but whatever they won’t accept get taken to Goodwill, along with a bag of a million Tupperware containers we were dragging around move to move.
Rad things I found in the purge:
Tragically Hip T-shirt I bought at a concert with my friend that was the last one they had so I had to buy it off the little mannequin
Buffalo Fire Department T-shirt from my grandpa, who retired as a captain (BRAGGING)
Lisa Frank multi-colored pen in a bag, the kind that you push the little buttons for the different colors
Lululemon blue and yellow capris that are like Wolverine and a pair of black track pants (I’m sure they totally fit)
Two Bills and two Sabres T-shirts (I usually buy a new shirt for every season)
Pair of thermal flower PJ pants that are totes cozy
So in conclusion, the system I grew up in drove my future behavior and tendency to hang on to things out of a scarcity mindset rather than a need- or appreciation-based mindset. Letting go of excess and being true to you is the key to not going completely insane while unemployed in a vast wasteland of country that you should probably stop passive-aggressively making comments about to your husband because he really is doing his best and being a great sport and you didn’t have to leave Seattle so you are in a hell of your own making and haven’t really put in a legitimate effort to get to know the area and made a couple solid acquaintances and just really need to put forth a better social effort, you know, but you are a hardcore introvert and also do dumb shit like throw out your back so really are you fit for public appearances? We may never know.
But who is pissed this isn’t about me vomiting because I have to tell you, I basically did just vomit all over your brain.
How many times have you been watching TV and get so confused or engrossed in the commercials that you completely forget what you were watching? “All the time” is the right answer. Most times I just make a face like I smelled a bad fart after I see a commercial I dislike but these are especially enraging to me.
Stelara – psoriasis injection medicine?
Here is my beef with this commercial – they use a model who won America’s Next Top Model or some garbage show like that and she wears four different outfits to represent the different seasons. UH HUH. “I’m Cari Dee, watch me the wear the same fugly ¾ sleeve, knee-length dress in four different colors.” Bitch, you’re not fooling anyone! “Look at this polyester dress I’m wearing at THE BEACH!” Those clothes don’t show shit, let alone less psoriasis. Lick me.
State Farm “nevers”
If you look at the comments on the commercial on YouTube, a lot of people think this guy is a douche. That never really occurred to me. What bothers me is that every time he and wife say “I’m never *fill in the blank*” then they DO IT. So, by reason of common sense and logic, if you say you’re never letting go then THAT MEANS YOU ARE LEAVING YOUR FAMILY, IDIOT!
Premise: kids like the Malibu better than the Toyota Camry because it has its own WIFI and they can watch their movie. FALSE. Kids like watching the movie better because their tiny brains are underdeveloped still and you are bombarding them with animated, horrid characters at a high speed of rate with lots of music and subliminal advertising. You could put them in a dumpster behind a strip club on the American side of Niagara Falls and if it had WIFI they would be happy so long as you DON’T STOP SOPHIA THE FIRST.
This is why you can’t vote or join the military until you are 18: undeveloped frontal lobe. Get off my lawn, Chevy.
ANY COMMERCIAL WITH CHEWING
This is it. The end of my patience and brain and tolerance is amplified chewing and/or mouth noises. Every once in a while one of those graphics will show up on social media about misophonia and it’s not widely accepted etc. but I just know that chewing, the dog licking his paw, the weird noise in Eric’s jaw, a spoon scraping the inside of a yogurt container/cup/anything plastic makes me more than enraged. I didn’t know it was a disorder, just that all my siblings and I pretty much share the same mental breakdown over it. I assumed our mom rang a little bell and dropped hate drops in our eyes when someone made a mouth noise. This went on while we were watching TGIF.
While I feel badly for Brett, this commercial resulted in me FREAKING OUT one day when I couldn’t find the remote to mute it so I put my hands over my ears and yelled “LALALALALALALALALALALA” until it was over, LIKE A GODDAMN ADULT.
You gotta give it to the CDC, that’s effective marketing.
And just for a little awesomeness, here is one commercial I love because it’s absolutely absurd and she looks like my friend Merry and Merry is unhinged enough to do this in real life. Enjoy.
“Why is your McMansion always broken?” my sister asked. I DON’T KNOW BUT HERE IS AN ANECDOTE.
We are renters. Why? Because if we bought a house here and I had to tell people this was my home for the next 30 years I would string myself up from the rafters. I can’t wait for this assignment to be done. Eric keeps telling me that “you gotta take the first crappy assignment then you have a better chance of picking where you want to go next time.” Uh huh.
I was finishing up my job in Seattle because my boss was a vicious tyrant who wouldn’t let me leave. (Actually, it was more like the company takes a million years to hire and vet people then I had to train him.) Eric had to be at his assignment in May and I wasn’t going to be able to leave until July. This left the action of securing housing up to him.
We had JUST found a house to rent in WA after a couple months of searching and passionately discussing where to live and I loved it and our neighborhood. I was bitter. Like a good K8-wrangler, he kept sending me posts of houses in the new location from Rent.com, Trulia.com, All the things.com, and was starting to wear me down. The wife of one of his coworkers is a realtor and offered to show him some properties. More links. Fine, does it have at least 1.5 bathrooms? Yes? Uh huh, fine, book it. Eric only had a week or so in the hotel or housing they provided when he moved out so he needed to find a place fast. I was too distracted with my job, finishing up my certificate classes, and generally freaking out about what was next.
Pictures of the house looked good – lots of hardwood, high ceilings, two-car garage, stainless steel kitchen, garden tub, 2.5 bathrooms, and a bonus room. This was way more house than either of us were used to and it felt fancy.
When our furniture arrived about a week after we did post Wedding Road Trip and we started setting up, it started to feel awesome. It’s not really “our house” but when people come to visit they will be all “holy shit, this is a cool house!” YEAH, it LOOKS cool.
The electrical, it’s always the fucking electrical.
It started with the ceiling fans in the master bedroom and the upstairs bonus room. They weren’t working at all. Not the lights, not the fans. They have a remote instead of a regular wall switch so at first the batteries were replaced. Nothing. So Eric put in an online maintenance ticket and a few days later a guy came to check.
“Uhhhh, they aren’t wired.” We both looked at each other stupidly, as in “how the fuck aren’t they wired?” He takes both of them and was going to check with the owner. She wanted them replaced. Roughly a week later, two ceiling fans arrive by mail but no word from the electrician. His wife, a lovely older Southern woman, finally called after another week to ask if they arrived. He came back and installed them. Super, work great.
Light bulbs. CONSTANTLY burning out. I don’t think a single bulb was ever replaced before we moved in. At first I thought it was just Eric being quirky. He’s super finicky about household things so I thought he was just buying bulbs that matched but nope. For the first two months we lived here I’m pretty sure every shopping trip included more fucking light bulbs.
Heating and cooling. I don’t know exactly what it was but some “switch” under the house went out right before Christmas. We were in WA visiting family when the power company called Eric to inform him that our usage had spiked and they crawled under the house and a switch was faulty. They fixed it but not before we got a $600 electric bill for that month. And right now this very moment I’m sitting upstairs in the bonus room at my desk with the temperature slowly climbing because the air conditioner isn’t working. Oh boo hoo, right? Let me describe Southern summers for you: Heat your oven to high, whatever the highest temperature is. Take a wet towel and put it in the oven. Live in the fucking oven. Amazing. It does nothing for my hair.
My favorite issue was the light above the mailbox. We don’t have street lights on the actual street. There is one on the corner. We are the second house from the corner. Every house on this asses-to-elbows street has a light on the mailbox for “safety” and it’s fine. The fascist Property Owners Association though will give you a ticket if your light is out.
Eric bought new bulbs. Eric bought a new switch for the sensor box. Eric made K8 fucking nuts talking about the mailbox light. He succumbed and put in a maintenance ticket. I believe this was a bit before Thanksgiving, somewhere in late October or early November. I don’t recall the exact number but I believe 4,682 people came to look at the light, inspect the box, check the ground wires, and then leave and do nothing. We heard nothing for months.
The realty company emailed us a couple weeks ago to see if it was fixed and I laughed so hard I might have popped a rib. “Ok, we are sending a crew between 1pm and 3 pm on Thursday.” Super, I will be here.
Like an idiot, I get up “early” so I can do my morning introverting, workout, and be showered before they show up. FALSE. Shiner starts growling at 10 am just as I am about to change into workout clothes so I do the routine where I check all the windows to show him that no one is trying to murder us…except there are four dudes on my front lawn with ladders and gadgets.
“Four dudes, one light” should be a viral Internet video where someone lights his butt on fire trying to light a fart but instead it’s just the usual contractor overkill. Me being the naturally delightful person that I am, I put on a sweatshirt and attempt to fix my Troll hair and let them know they are super fucking early. “Yes, ma’am. No worries ma’am. We’re just here to check then someone else will be here later to dig.”
Great, a multi-pronged approach to the mailbox light. At some point I look out the window to check and there is one guy on a ladder. Then he leaves. Saga over. I change and go upstairs to do my workout…for five minutes until the doorbell rings.
Super nice guy. Agrees they built the neighbors’ house way too close. Idiots, right?! Replaced the ground line and laid down new sod for the lawn…thanks! Go back upstairs and destroy my delts.
Email Eric and let him know the light is fixed and he got new sod! He LOVES yard work. I think it’s his Norwegian side. Fucking loves manual labor, that guy.
“What does it look like?” UGH, never just a thanks from him. Always the detective questions.
I had to take Shiner out anyway so we went outside to inspect the work. DEAD. The sod looks like they dug up some old, dead grass from somewhere and flopped it down. Eric worked on the lawn so much because I may or may not have been letting Shiner pee on the 14×4 strip of front lawn and the grass was all dead and he just started to get it even and then they dug it up and put down this embarrassment of sod and he was at least going to have something to keep him busy but I laughed all the way back into the house because irony.
These are just a few of my favorite McMansion issues. This doesn’t include all the slightly-crooked tiles, broken tiles, countertops that are pulling away from the vanity and wall, the fact that there are NO WINDOWS on the entire west side of the house…If that little realtor trickster had somehow convinced Eric to buy this and we were stuck with all this nonsense and no natural light I would probably move back to WA and live in my Golf with Shiner. You can do that there.
Everyone stop what you’re doing cause I’m about to ruin your perception of me as a heartless curmudgeon. THE ATLANTIC CAME TODAY!!! WTF are you talking about? OH, the fact that after many months of hoping and waiting and thinking that I should have an allowance and someone to look after my finances MY BENEVOLENCE AND PRIVILEGE GUILT PAID OFF! We had a sort of ice storm today but the mail came because literally neither rain nor sleet nor snow stops USPS and it was FULL of magazines: Bloomberg, Home & Garden, Fast Company, Seventeen, and The Atlantic. Smugness ACTIVATE!! Why do I get Seventeen? I dunno. Before The Atlantic, I haven’t paid for a magazine subscription in years. They just sort of show up. I think Major paid for Women’s Health for me for a year and they just keep sending more and more sister publications. As I opened the mailbox and said out loud “what the hell” because there was so much stuff, I started rifling through the stack as Shiner tried to wind himself around the light pole. And here it is, a red beacon of hope and light and mercy and future counseling school:
So now what’s next? A job?! I got another one of those “zoom” letters today about “we received many applications and are pursuing applicants with qualifications who more closely resemble what we are looking for” or something like that. It’s not like I have it memorized or anything. I am also making zero headway with school. I’m not registered, no one answers emails regarding status update, and I have no funding yet either. So, it’s going well.
I love flipping people off in my car. I’m not allowed to do it so people actually SEE me do it because of shit like this. So this it looks like this lady went back out with her son to find the dumbasses from the initial incident and ended up dying over it. Awful. We went to a hockey game for my birthday and when we were leaving the game and walking back to the car we/I got into an altercation. The truck was parked at a restaurant across the street from the arena and I was still happily buzzed. (This would quickly turn into “oh God, please don’t puke in the truck” thoughts for an hour on the drive home because I can’t have four beers in four hours anymore. Thanks, 33.) A gaggle of us were walking on the sidewalk when a car tried to plow through us. We stopped. She stopped. I, in my righteous beer indignation and in my visiting team jersey, made a grand sweeping gesture with my arm and said “aaaaafter YOOOOOU!” No middle finger, but I made my point. This is when passenger dude decided he should open the door, stand up and hide behind the open door, and start calling me names that clever broheims call women who dare call them out. You know, like bitch and whore. SUPER CLEVER. I didn’t even know what to say so I just kept walking because one, it was fucking cold and two, Major encouraged me to keep walking. What kind of piece of shit dude wants to throw down with a woman because his lady friend nearly plowed down seven pedestrians? A SUPER COOL ONE! Anyway, that is why I am not allowed to voice my opinion in real time with traffic bullies or hockey bullies or bullies because you don’t know who has a gun and will put one in your brain because they are SUPER COOL.
For some reason I decided I needed to make chicken pot pie for dinner. It’s been colder than normal down here south of the Mason Dixon so it seemed like a good thing to have. I found this recipe on Pinterest and it seemed k8-proof. I went to the grocery store down the road. It’s not my favorite because their options for organic vegetables is just the boxes of organic spinach. Anyway, it was my second trip there in as many days. I was wearing the same leggings I slept in, tunic, black short Zombie Apocalypse boots, and Columbia bubble coat that I unzipped from the bottom because I decided the $50 price difference between a small and a medium size was too much. Brushed teeth and hair. Put cover-up on my awesome hormonal break-outs. There are only four or five ingredients in the recipe plus the pre-made crust I was going to get. We needed a few regular staples. I should have been in and out in ten minutes…except I couldn’t find the fucking crust. I looked in the case near the butter first with all the biscuits and didn’t see the cans there. I walked back to the freezer cases past the pizza. Past the waffles. Past the ice cream. I could only find the frozen crusts that were for one-crust dishes. I NEED BOTH CRUSTS, DAMMIT! I found one of those tiny Marie Callendar pot pies for Major because I was about to give up. I was getting sweaty, which doesn’t take much but the bubble coat was really holding in all the heat. The butter case was occupied by a lady who needed several moments to pick a fucking butter when I was there earlier, so I went back to the case. We’ve been eating popcorn while watching non-illegally obtained movies and going through a shit load of butter. What was directly next to butter? DOUBLE CRUST IN A BOX! A BOX! I was looking for a can the first time. Silly.
Following a recipe 80 percent is my specialty. We don’t have glass circle pie pans but I have a bunch of those white Corning dishes. My cooking ninja skills aren’t so advanced that I know how to compensate for things or if you need to compensate for different pie plate materials. I found a square glass dish because I DON’T NEED SOCIETY TO TELL ME WHAT SHAPE MY MEAT PIES SHOULD BE! Also, it was delicious and we ate the shit out of it. There is a tiny square of it left in the frig. Usually I have way more self-control but I’m pretty sure we ate nearly equal amounts. NOT SORRY.
Just some parting thoughts: Melissa McCarthy and Susan Sarandon should be partnered together in way many more comedies. Jenny Slate is a national treasure. Pregnant Mindy Lahiri already makes me giggle. I thought I lost an orange sport sock forever and Major was just standing here saying good night and PULLED IT OUT OF HIS SLEEVE LIKE A MAGICIAN.
I could write about this all day, every day for infinity. But I won’t. I do feel it necessary to explain why I need to introvert and why you should leave me the hell alone while I’m doing it.
Long weekends mean that Major is home for four days in a row. 24/7 of him. In my quiet space. Should be a blessing, right? I think we finally reached the point where we have been physically together for more than 50 percent of our relationship now so I should be glad to have time with him…Except…except he’s in grad school and when he’s home he’s avoiding schoolwork. Know how he avoids schoolwork? By twirling (literally) around the living room, eating anything that doesn’t move in the pantry and refrigerator, playing with the dog, reading stupid articles out loud to me while I am trying to read, etc. I have a 35-year old toddler when he’s avoiding school. MOM! MOM! MOM! LOOK WHAT I CAN DO!
Introvert doesn’t mean “shy.” If you met me for half a second you would know I’m fairly obnoxious and will generally talk to anyone. Introvert means I get my energy from quiet time, from being alone. I start my day SLOWLY. When I wake up I take about 20 minutes to check social media and email on my phone. Then I take the dog out. Then I drink a big cup of water (hydrations matters!) Then I have a cup of coffee. At this point I’m ready to either work out or do chores or whatever. I don’t interact with a human all day until Major gets home most of the time. It’s fucking great…unless you have a high-strung toddler in your house ruining it.
That’s my placeholder for The Walking Dead and dishes and laundry. I’m also torturing myself by watching SNL 40. Sigh. Umm, I, well, I just should have known better. It’s like an awards show – a big celebrity reach-around fest. Back to introversion:
I’m not LONELY. I just like BEING ALONE for parts of my day to recharge and try to be a functioning human. It’s hard. I have no idea how I’m going to rejoin the working world if that ever happens. Being solitary is amazing. I pick my nose all the time. When I was working, it used to be my lunchtime bathroom stall activity. Now I just do it whenever I fucking please. You don’t have to really get dressed. I wear a lot of leggings and button-up shirts and slippers and my glasses all the time, except that’s because my eyes are shitty and I can’t see without them. I really only take them off to eat because I will always splash liquid or sauce on them BECAUSE I’M A LADY.
If you get offended and think that I am ignoring you, you’re wrong. If I need serious recharge time, I’m not answering the phone/text/Twitter/Facebook/Myspace/Snapchat for ANYONE. Major could text me from upstairs and I would pretend I didn’t see it when he came downstairs. (He wouldn’t really do that. He would just interrupt whatever I was doing face-to-face because his antics are personal. He’s an officer and a pain in my ass.) And I’m so out of my beloved introvert schedule this weekend that I can’t even focus long enough to give you 1,000 words tonight and that’s just how it’s going to have to be. AND THAT’S HOW BAD IT IS WHEN I DON’T GET ALONE TIME.
I’m an introvert, and that’s ok!
I hermit all night, and I hermit all day!
I’m into a serious Monty Python mindset today. I was watching Fawlty Towers on Netflix one day and I realized that all my coping skills come from Basil Fawlty. I had a freak-out of this caliber on a dryer sheet today https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=78b67l_yxUc simply because I hated its existence and I didn’t want it on the floor or in the basket or IN MY LIFE at that moment. Dead. Dead to me.