OMG. the next time i say i want to move, someone just fucking shoot me. really. this should not be this painful. and i'm not even talking about boxes or heavy furniture. (and that shit hurts and i'll talk about that in a moment.) holy shit. really. whomever thought it would be a good idea to put two indecisive and incompetent drama queens in a house on the other side of a river needs a fucking lobotomy. i'm not saying indecisive and incompetent in a bad way; i'm saying it in an interesting, don't ever leave anything on the kitchen counter you don't want the world to know about kind of way. because we both talk way too much and we both have camera phones. omg.
so. i don't even know where to begin. in fact, some of it has been so traumatic i don't even want to talk about it. this morning i woke up and i just had a serious 'what the fuck am i doing?' moment except that i didn't really want to talk to anyone about it because i know that this is the bed that i've made and i have to lie in it. there comes a point where you wonder if you're just compounding mistake on top of mistake and you're not sure where one stops and another begins and what is right and what is wrong. i'm at that point. in theory, this is a good idea. change is good for me. but the reality of the situation is that i'm running away from unresolved issues and emotions and every now and then i just catch myself crying for no good reason except that the gran massa champ points and says cry and i just do. like right now. and then i can't stop.
and i really don't want to talk about it. i don't know what to say and nothing will really fix it. i know i've messed up. i just have to find a path that's going to lead to something good. and peaceful. i'm tired of the stress and drama and ongoing saga that has become my life. i don't want to be like this. i'm better than this. but i keep resorting back to this.
some days i wake up and i can hardly bear to get out of bed, i want to lie and fester in my own misery. but i know that if i don't get up, one day will turn into two and two into three and three into a week and a week into a month and a month into a year and a year into a lifetime and instead of thirty minus four i'll be dead. that's how much i can't stand what i've created for myself sometimes. so i get up. and i make myself cute and i smile and pretend that what i'm feeling on the inside isn't real and if i don't think about it, it doesn't exist. until i do something big and serious like move three hours away from everyone i know and i don't have anything to do but think (and drive people around). so instead, i try to be happy with small things. like my cats. and milk in glass bottles. and peach margaritas and misting fans and dark chocolate candy bars and lip gloss and new notebooks and pencils and sales at american eagle (the store, not the airline). because sometimes that's all i have to be happy about. or at least all that comes to mind sometimes.
but the point of this is not to wallow in being sad. i guess we can all tell i'm good at that. (if you haven't picked up on that just yet, call me. we can talk.) i just need to find my path, my way, my road. i just don't know if it's here. it's prolly too soon to tell, and honestly, today of all days is not the day to be making decisions such as that anyway. my mood swings like a giant pendulum and i fear for the safety of those around me. i'm up, i'm down, i'm drunk, i'm sober. i will say that if nothing else, this will be an educational experience, not necessarily courtesy of the university of dbq.
so for right now, i'm going to go to the kitchen and sit on my sofa, which is upside down and cushion-less and eat some ice cream. it's not pella ice cream company ice cream, but it's ice cream. and i'm going to survey the damage and try to figure out how to put my life in order one small piece at a time, starting with the silverware.
ps. hi mom. i miss you.