snot haiku

The office cold has
got me in her phlegmy grip.
Stupid office cold.

fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

More bad.

This week I was treated to such delights as my own mother sending hate mail to my work account while I'm trying to deal with 4.3 million other things. Her accusations included that I am "... truly crazy", that I have afflicted her with "...death by a thousand cuts" and that I am "...not the girl she thought I was."

All this because I will not tell her everything about my life; particularly when it is not my story alone to tell.

Truly, she is beyond interfering and controlling.

It's lucky for me that I'm medicated to the gills so that I've been able to handle her maniacal outbursts with some semblance of calm; but it's not a good time.

Admittedly there would be no "good" time but, if there were to be a good time, right now really isn't it.

I'm so tired.

There are too many things going on right now when all I really want to do is sleep. I can't get enough sleep right now. I should be working about 16 hours a day if I'm to have any hope of getting on top of everything, but I can't muster more than 8.

It's dark and cold and everyone else keeps finishing at 5pm. I don't want to be the last person in the office. I don't drive; and it's dark and cold and there's no one to come home to.

I'm beginning to despair of the probable likelihood of my shit coming together for the best.

...not sure what I want or need to write this evening

I'm just lonely and all DUI*, but without the D.

I'd dearly love to explain what's been going on at work but, since I nearly got dooced a while back, that's not really possible.

I'm fairly one dimensional these days - as if I ever wasn't.

Up. Work. Home. TV. Bed. Repeat.

Awesome.

The highlight of my day so far is seeing the actress who played Prisoner's Bea Smith on crappy All Saints tonight.

I think the best course of action is to take a hot water bottle to bed and continue Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

* Dialing under the influence.

as if you're not tired of me prattling about my problems

This weekend I finally came clean with my family about all the problems the Monkey-husband and I have had this year.

For those of you with a mathematical disposition, that conversation has been 4 months in the making (almost to the day); and 2 months since I had my stroke.

It went better than expected. Nobody got nailed to anything, which is always a plus.

But the fact remains that I'm no closer to knowing. Will the Monkey ever come home? How long should I wait, realistically? What is the point of anything without a partner in crime?

Unfortunately the answer to all three questions is, "I don't know."

...loser.

I used to be feminist; not "defined by my man" and all that.

*snort*

See how the mighty have fallen.

I miss my husband.