And I'm convinced this is not going to work out. One of those, feel it in your soul situations. I almost started this post with, "And I'm convinced it's a bad idea." That isn't accurate though. Just because I don't think it is going to work out for me, doesn't mean it's a bad idea. Some of the biggest "fails" of my life have lead to some of the best learning experiences of my life. If I don't take the job, I can't have the experience and if I can't have a new experience, I can't grow from it.
Maybe it's good to take breaks from the unstructured gypsy life I tend to lead. Then again, I may only be reigniting the love of it through a soul crushing, corporate job.
Friday, August 30, 2013
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
The times they are a changing
me. At least it seems that way. I got engaged the other day and was shocked to discover I'm excited about it. I'm such a fucking scrooge about things like that normally. It's been a few days now and the only downside to it is that Facebook has stopped suggesting pages entitled, "Local black singles" and "faithful black men" and replaced them with "bridesmaid's dresses". I've never actually enjoyed any of the pages that Facebook suggests, but I find myself wanting to throw up about bridesmaid dresses. I still want to jump behind a bush if someone congratulates me or asks me to tell them in detail how it happened, but that feeling is subsiding. I've actually found myself trying to respond enthusiastically. I kind of want to die on the inside, but I really am trying to turn that around. (After posting this, I realized how negative and crazy it sounds. I can't delete any of it though because I said I wouldn't edit my thoughts this summer. I do feel compelled to emphasize how happy I am. Seriously. I just have this weird thing that when people mention anything about my personal life I have a complete inner melt down and instantly try to redirect the conversation.)
Also, I killed a mouse. Well, I bought a mouse trap that did the actual killing, but it's really the same thing. To me anyway. I've got this weird thing about killing mice. Killing anything really, but I feel especially bad for mice because everything in the world is constantly trying to kill them or kill them and then eat them. That philosophy is changing now too. I came back to my dad's house from being in Mpls for three weeks and the mice certainly took to the play while the cat was away. That's far too whimsical a description for what actually happened. What they actually did was take to shitting everywhere uninterrupted, for three weeks while I was in MN and my dad's cat was at my mom's house. I'm not saying that they were every afraid of me or the cat from the get go, but they went on like a crazy tequila soaked, bath salted, coke binge while we were gone. I mean they flew in little hoochie momma mouse strippers from neighboring states and paid off the little mouse policia, the whole nine. So I reached my breaking point with them and bought traps. I paid extra for the traps that kill them and seal it all up so you never see the actual mouse because I can't handle seeing the broken neck of little Pablo Escobar mouse edition. I get emotional just checking to see what position the red dot is in everyday. If it's still in the "set" position (which it always is) I'm like, "Fuck! Really?" but if it's in the "mouse caught" position (which has only happened once) I'm like, "Oh my god. Oh my god. I have to pick him up. Fuck. What if he's not dead and I have to put him out of his misery? Do I just toss him in the dumpster? Who the fuck kills another living being and then just chucks 'em in the trash?". Can't they just learn to use a litter box and we could all live in harmony like the little mouse in Ratatouille?
I don't want them to die. I hate thinking about the moment the little thing snaps and crushes their spine or whatever it does. I wonder if it's fast and then sometimes I worry that it will malfunction and they'll be trapped half dead with their little baby mice looking on in horror.
The first night I put them out, I kept thinking I heard mice running around. I kept thinking I heard the traps snapping on them. I tried sleeping in the recliner, but then I moved to the loveseat. I couldn't tell what part of the house I would be able to sleep that contained the least mouse appeal. I couldn't sleep in the bed because I had discovered mouse shit on my pillow and I ripped all the bedding and blankets off of it and could not bring myself to sleep in the bed anymore. It was pretty awful so I got drunk and watched New Girl to forget about it. For two nights in a row. It really helped me to sleep in the recliner until 1am on the second night when I finished the last Netflix episode of New Girl and almost had a panic attack because I was drunkenly dragged back into the reality of living alone in the middle of nowhere with in a fucking mouse house. So then I compulsively checked all the traps. None of which indicated having killed a mouse, so I started to wonder if mouse traps operated on intentions. Some South American tribe (so I was told by a woman named Anna) believe that tobacco is a drug of intent. They believe (according to Anna) that if fulfills whatever you think it will. It's kind of a lovely thought and I'm sure somewhat true, but you have to remember all those people here that used to chain smoke in shopping malls and airplanes and doctor's offices and they all died of heart and lung failure without ever once thinking that cigarettes would kill them. That fact has never stopped me from wondering if it's true though. What if things really are a manifestation of your true intents. Maybe my mouse traps aren't catching mice because I never really wanted them to. Maybe I used to really wanted faithful black men in the area with help from Facebook. Shit. See, the logic only works fifty percent of the time.
Also, I killed a mouse. Well, I bought a mouse trap that did the actual killing, but it's really the same thing. To me anyway. I've got this weird thing about killing mice. Killing anything really, but I feel especially bad for mice because everything in the world is constantly trying to kill them or kill them and then eat them. That philosophy is changing now too. I came back to my dad's house from being in Mpls for three weeks and the mice certainly took to the play while the cat was away. That's far too whimsical a description for what actually happened. What they actually did was take to shitting everywhere uninterrupted, for three weeks while I was in MN and my dad's cat was at my mom's house. I'm not saying that they were every afraid of me or the cat from the get go, but they went on like a crazy tequila soaked, bath salted, coke binge while we were gone. I mean they flew in little hoochie momma mouse strippers from neighboring states and paid off the little mouse policia, the whole nine. So I reached my breaking point with them and bought traps. I paid extra for the traps that kill them and seal it all up so you never see the actual mouse because I can't handle seeing the broken neck of little Pablo Escobar mouse edition. I get emotional just checking to see what position the red dot is in everyday. If it's still in the "set" position (which it always is) I'm like, "Fuck! Really?" but if it's in the "mouse caught" position (which has only happened once) I'm like, "Oh my god. Oh my god. I have to pick him up. Fuck. What if he's not dead and I have to put him out of his misery? Do I just toss him in the dumpster? Who the fuck kills another living being and then just chucks 'em in the trash?". Can't they just learn to use a litter box and we could all live in harmony like the little mouse in Ratatouille?
I don't want them to die. I hate thinking about the moment the little thing snaps and crushes their spine or whatever it does. I wonder if it's fast and then sometimes I worry that it will malfunction and they'll be trapped half dead with their little baby mice looking on in horror.
The first night I put them out, I kept thinking I heard mice running around. I kept thinking I heard the traps snapping on them. I tried sleeping in the recliner, but then I moved to the loveseat. I couldn't tell what part of the house I would be able to sleep that contained the least mouse appeal. I couldn't sleep in the bed because I had discovered mouse shit on my pillow and I ripped all the bedding and blankets off of it and could not bring myself to sleep in the bed anymore. It was pretty awful so I got drunk and watched New Girl to forget about it. For two nights in a row. It really helped me to sleep in the recliner until 1am on the second night when I finished the last Netflix episode of New Girl and almost had a panic attack because I was drunkenly dragged back into the reality of living alone in the middle of nowhere with in a fucking mouse house. So then I compulsively checked all the traps. None of which indicated having killed a mouse, so I started to wonder if mouse traps operated on intentions. Some South American tribe (so I was told by a woman named Anna) believe that tobacco is a drug of intent. They believe (according to Anna) that if fulfills whatever you think it will. It's kind of a lovely thought and I'm sure somewhat true, but you have to remember all those people here that used to chain smoke in shopping malls and airplanes and doctor's offices and they all died of heart and lung failure without ever once thinking that cigarettes would kill them. That fact has never stopped me from wondering if it's true though. What if things really are a manifestation of your true intents. Maybe my mouse traps aren't catching mice because I never really wanted them to. Maybe I used to really wanted faithful black men in the area with help from Facebook. Shit. See, the logic only works fifty percent of the time.
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