It’s been a long time since I had a car, but you know that sound it makes when the engine is old and it’s been out in the cold all night, and you’re trying to start it, and the motor won’t turn over…? RRRRRRR….RRRRR…RRRRRRR (grind grind grind)
Well, that is how I feel. Won’t turn over. Can’t get started. Idiot lights are on. Nothing doing.
Between my students and the Studio, I worked (or tried to work, or was going to and from work, or applied to work) over 40 hours between Friday and Sunday.
I cannot fathom another 14-hour day. My parrot is neglected and my fish tank has algae in it. My apartment is a wreck. I’M a wreck.
The Surgeon sent me a text inquiring if I was free on Wednesday. For some reason, I got really mad that I am going through this difficult time and he has not even asked how I am doing. Like, it would be nice if I had a guy who gave a shit about my life. The Surgeon only cares when he senses that I am considering cutting him off–they he goes into freaky stalker mode and he pinballs around Manhattan calling me from payphones and I can’t get away from him. Anyway, I shot him back a text: Sure, if I don’t have to work. I’ll let you know! I am here for YOU, after all! Hmmm, very passive-aggressive, Margo, very passive-aggressive! And becoming, too. I guess if I am possibly going to have to hit him up for money before the landlord sends ninja assassins after me (or eviction proceedings), it would behoove me to be sweet to him. After all, what am I mad about? That he’s being a selfish asshole? But that’s who he is, and I’ve known it all along.
(Tangentially, if I want a real boyfriend in my life, I am going to have to quit at the Studio. No normal, healthy man is going to put up with that. The Surgeon wouldn’t put up with it either, if he knew about it. He would shit purple twinkies–yikes–I don’t want to think about it–I have enough to worry about. I should be safe; I’ve taken a new name, and he’s never been there).
Fuck it. I’m calling Frau Farbissina. Will try to take the day off and just go in for the night shift (shudder). I need to do some self-maintenance. Go to a meeting, clean the house, email my professor,
freak out about the weight I’ve gained, suck down a bottle of wine, GO TO A MEETING. I can make my home group at 1 PM.
I guess this blogging is progress–six months ago I wanted to die and couldn’t bring myself to write so much as a grocery list–but it’s not as therapeutic as being with people. People are reading in growing numbers, however! The blog’s gained significant momentum over the last few months. I have no idea who all you people are, but thanks for reading.