saint-louise's Diaryland Diary

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Spring is Winter’s angry stepchild.

I love spring. I do. The birds, and the realization that I don’t always have to wear a coat outside, and the upcoming break from school, and the fact that I had my first sighting of one of the mad squirrels that race about in my office’s parking garage, and the snow – that stupid, fucking BASTARD snow – is finally melting away so I can stand over the dwindling piles and scream, “Who’s laughing now, bitch? HUH? Just try that blizzard, power outage, gate buried, car stuck in the driveway, cat freaked out by falling branches, slipping and gashing open my wrist bullshit now. GO ON. I DARE YOU. NO MORE THAN A PUDDLE OF PISS NOW, AREN’TCHA? HAHAHAHAHA!”

Because that makes it all better. Trust me.

However, for the past four years, spring has seemed like nothing more to me than a really kickass party going on in the apartment next to mine. By the time I get through finals and taxes and birthdays, I find I’ve missed spring almost entirely, and I’ve got to get started on bitching about how hot it is.

I’m trying very hard not to have a poor attitude and extreme levels of stress, and I’m definitely trying not to take it out on any innocent bystanders.

Really.

(Shut up.)

So I’m (no, really – shut up) doing something I should do more often when I’m having such a day of shittiness that it far surpasses the highest level of shitdom, gets sucked into a rift in the fabric of reality, and comes out the other side as Son of Shitty, spawned in the lower intestine of hell and member of the NRA.

I’m staying out of whatever I can. Saying as little as possible. And ignoring anything with Louise-distemper hotwords in them, like, “deadline,” “you’renotfairmom,” and “pus.”

Because no one likes the word “pus.” Trust me.

So, let’s do a quick roll-call of influences on my current mood. You know. For kicks.

1. I don’t like my job.

2. This semester at school almost makes me wistful for the days when I was satisfied cleaning hotel rooms for minimum wage and getting stoned so regularly that after six weeks, coming down was like being high. (“Wait. Wow! I just realized that I know how to drive!”)

3. I really don’t like my job.

4. I’m crampy. A lot crampy. If I’m incubating the creature that wipes out human life on Earth, I offer my sincerest apologies right now.

5. I’m in debt. I’d like to get out of debt. All credit unions or banks that I have approached for the past seven years, asking them to help me get out of debt, have responded with, “We’re sorry. Your debt is too high for us to help you get out of debt.” Even though I haven’t gotten myself into further debt, I get this response. I can hardly wait for the day I’m 80 and almost out of debt so the banks and credit unions will help me get out of debt. Then I can die the next day and haunt them until they take leave of their senses entirely. That will be such fun.

6. I really, really don’t like my job. I’d like to quit. However, see #5.

7. People I care very deeply about keep snapping at me, or ignoring me, or brushing me off. I’m still trying to keep a rational head about this, but I am beginning to suspect there’s something deeper and very unpleasant in their reactions to me. Like, they need a suitable host to incubate the creature that will wipe out human life on Earth, and they find the proper host by ostracizing candidates into submission. So. You know. That’s a bummer.

8. This just in: my job “really, really doesn’t like me either. So we’re even. Nyah. I hope you get herpes, two-faced bitch.”

Huh.

All in all, not horrible, I guess. Could be worse.

Just…lay loooooow.

Trust me.

4:44 p.m. - 2004-03-03

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