Mood:
blueTopic: La vie
You don't want to read this blog. It's not about my favorite things, nor is it about whiskers on kittens or copper kettles. In fact, it's not the least bit cheerful or optimistic.
That's right, I'm going to say it. Things suck for me right now. It's because I'm stressed. And I'm stressed about pretty much everything I could be stressed about. I think I'm always a little stressed about something, but when more than one or two things gets out of hand—I flip my shit. My normal, cool facade goes straight into bitch-mode and you don't want to cross my path.
But what could I be stressed about? Well, let me just give you a typical run down of my day, BOB. My alarm starts ringing at 6:01 each morning. Around 6:28, I roll my fat ass out of bed and hit the shower. Afterward, I feed my cat and pack a shitty lunch because I'm currently saving every penny I have for when I lose my job in six months. I leave for work around 7:30, fight the traffic with my middle finger stuck out the window, and roll into the office just before 8. Coffee is always first on my agenda and if it isn't made, I want to throw a temper tantrum.
In the mornings, I usually tackle e-mails and meetings, unless I have writing to do. Around lunch, I dread eating that shitty lunch I packed because I'm hungry and wish I could just eat out. So I eat lunch at my desk while I work. Since I'm huge, I usually finish my lunch in 15 minutes, making me hate my life even more.
I leave work around 4:30 and fight traffic to get home. On the way home I stress about losing my job. Upon entering my complex, I have to press a button on a remote because I live in a gated community. Chances are the gate doesn't open, which I then get out of my car and flip off the leasing office and demand a refund on my rent. Then I try to wreck my piece of shit car into the side of the building because I hate it and I'm too poor to get a new one and then I realize that I hate living in my stupid complex for said reasons. When I get home, I freeze to death because I am officially too cheap to turn the heat on because I am saving every penny for when I lose my job.
The job thing is a multi-layered issue. Last year, I was worried about losing my job when maybe I shouldn't have been. But this year, nearly everyone in my office is afraid of getting the ax. I'm trying to do the responsible thing by saving money and looking for new job opportunities. Well, it sounds dandy, but saving money sucks. I can't go to the bars and drink like I once did, go out for a nice meal, or even buy myself a pretty new pair of shoes. I feel guilty for anything that costs money unless it's food, rent, or gas. Looking for jobs is just another set of problems. It takes time and patience—two things I wish I had. And let's be honest, there aren't many jobs out there, period. So ask me about Kohl's discounts in six months because that's probably where I'll be working.
Shortly after I get home, I force myself to put on workout clothes and make it to the gym. If you haven't figured it out, I hate working out. I don't run, pretty much hate walking, don't ride a bike. I have no interest in any sort of physical activity. The only reason I'm doing it is because I agreed to do Race for the Cure. I can't run a mile to save my life, so how I'm going to run three to save someone else's is beyond me. The "gym" I go to is in my apartment complex, which only has a few treadmills and bikes. So I usually run/walk for as long as I can or until I have a mental breakdown and walk back to my igloo where I cook myself a shitty dinner because of the said reasons.
After dinner, I work again. I am always on a freelance deadline, which I am thankful for the money. But of course I'd rather be doing something else at 8 p.m. at night. After that, I usually write this blog. Or watch television where everyone else's life is better than mine. I usually sleep off and on through the night, interrupted by my teeth grinding, nightmares, or general stress about my suck ass life.
When the weekend comes, the only real perk there is getting to sleep in. I still have freelance to do, shitty meals to eat, and forced workouts to do. Occasionally, there's a date slipped in, but let's face facts—I'm such a bitch that everything just ends up in a fight.
Don't worry, I'm not going to kill myself. However, checking myself into a mental hospital for anger management sounds like a splendid plan.
