update: every one of those union general membership meetings is a fucking funeral. it's an emotional labor union. I email-confirmed my tattoo appointment for the same day/time as our next union "mixer" (B-knife right again, there are mixers - but they're a total drag) during the meeting, a month from now. it'll be potluck. I said I'll bring my new ass tattoo if the party holds up long enough, my only sidechat quip. why the tat? I needed to manifest a different version. I wanted to do a cover of the orginal tattoo vignette, dry with a more kundalini material outcome. I never am quieted exactly, I simmer down. simmer til it falls off the bone.   update: dr cancelled, all kinda stressed out about that / this life is paperwork assault I swear to christ. we stategize how to deal w that, paperwork spread all over one counter again. then there's nothing more to be done re that so QUICK, STOP FEELING ANYTHING ABOUT IT as fast as we can (it is just papework - the real work is sanity). how? 🤔🤔 him: what's for dinner? me: meatloaf. good question. I lost the potatoes, thats why we didnt have meatloaf last night him: lost? me: (opening and shutting all cabinets) they're gone and I used them in pot roast last weekend so they're here him: (opening up-high cabinets, as if I could reach) did you just throw them out? you throw out everything and call it cleaning me: sometimes I wonder if I dissociate and throw out potatoes then come back and don't remember him: I think we all have always done that and now we call it dissociating me: 🤔 - omg they're right here in line with our boots him: as in "staples" ? me: 🤭maybe! ok, the secret to meatloaf is soaking dried out too-hostile-to-swallow bread hunks (like croutons) in milk (I demonstrate) him: cool! so much of good cooling is knowing one simple fucking thing like that me: poor people sadsack hacks are the best. such as, build me a fire this afternoon so I can take today's 'we're all getting fired!' meeting fireside, please. him: martha stewart me: jeff or no jeff, damn straight  |
| playcave progress - rugs and table on which to play games (again) |
it's def today 0_0
what was my horoscope 👀
VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22). You've been putting up with an inconvenience for so long that you barely notice it anymore. Today you'll remember how things used to work and realize you can restore that arrangement. One adjustment will improve your everyday life.
welp. not that it'a any of my business (very not) but the endless divorce of Crouton (he picked it! he chose Huckleberry too, he's free to pick his own blog aliases), from all the things he's been needing free from for an epoch (samanthonys + lowcunnings) has impeded my access to his sense of humor. I know very few people with a lightening fast eye for what is absurd, and most of those people are blood related (I made them or they made me). so the simple end of that divorce, end the fighting and default to easy-law (court friendly law = here's the rules, no grandparents don't have rights so be nice, he/she get assigned days and virtually no contact = THE COURT NEVER SEES YOU AGAIN. family courts never want to see your ass) would so radically improve the shape of his time that he might laugh again. he'll have all kinds of time for it. alone-time with a new SINGLE parent role, which he hasn't experienced the awesomeness of yet. singleparent time is the shit imo. good lord, if he got that AND shut-up-gossip time at work (tho he'll fuck it up eventually by fucking another hen but still, a reprieve)....well I dunno who he is at that point, but fun again will come back to him. I can hear it in his voice, trying to come back, laughing familiar enough of a feeling that it doesn't make him cough.
thing is, although I miss that (terribly sometimes) FOR ME, what was 💔 was giving up on it for HIM.
and now turn that around: Ears driving again.
Ears can go do what he wants, without me there to monitor the guardrails for deliberate suicidal aims off cliffs. without any control of what he does. and hoping for his sake that he's too busy being happy in his own life to be laughing with me in painful waiting rooms.
I don't want Crouton to be stuck forever in the equivalent of a shitty waiting room.
2 Novembers ago, TWO SOLID YEARS, he texted me that flirt photo of him w the socks in the hotel room, and an offer to perform an unrequited sexual service that I rejected (🤔 🤭 maybe it's a voucher!🤞 hahaha). that night he told me he was getting divorced, couldn't wait (!), then maybe he would find a farmgirl and maybe make another baby (!). at the time, I rejected the 'favor' bc was like 🤨 have fun w the disneyprincess farmgirls wtfever 🙄. but now, after all the hell and grippysocks and meanness insanity, I say little prayers for him like yes go fuck farmgirls go be freeee....
I have no control. I had to remember that, to live it again, and again. when and if the cage door of addiction(s) opens, the decision to walk out of it belongs to the person in the cage.
and they might run hell for leather away from the world you yourself occupy. Ears might disappear in a new way, into his own life rather than into his death.
and that is the new crux for me. having had what little was left of my life completely eaten by the Ears crisis, on top of what had to feel like a possible-hospice bedside tour of detox/rehabs (inevitably - how could I possibly get to I dont give a shit without ever having achieved I don't care anymore in the first place?), with a couple funerals thrown in, and ALL MY FUNNIEST PEOPLE GONE from work omg horrible work/function conditions for a lifetime workaholic, now I am kind of ... 🤔 ... uncomfortably undefined / just waiting for the next shock.
so, when/if that cage door opens, can I walk out?
already my sister wants to bring our kids to HI. I can't say no, not sure if I want to say no and can't get the words out of my mouth if I do, don't know how to manage feeling "of course thatd be great but also no" I just stay quiet, push off the decision, stop answering my sister's calls, until finally "for HI, I am going to buy condoms for the first time in a decade." nothing about the kids or not the kids, just me. I am def not going to actually do that. and my sister gets that. she doesn't know how to respond to a sentence that is just about me, is my point. what would/could it mean if all I think about are 1 writing this paper about reading Louise Erdrich while traumatized and 2 my own self's voicing its wants - ?
my sister, ever level headed, "ok well let's let it rest a minute and talk again Friday"
all the careworker teams are now warning me of this, my impending caregiver crisis. which is an oxymoronic position: for the other person's sake, I have to imagine that person gone (in a good way for them). I know that's a dangerous time for me too, Titos is right there in the face of loneliness without end. my stance regarding others has to be #gofuckfarmgirls and I gotta figure out how to be actually fine even if unneeded or whatever. in my own right. (not just look good hahaha)
I keep being able to put off pulling that ☝️ off because another piano falls on someone standing next to me.
what happens when the sky runs out of pianos and everybody's either dead or not, final answer?
siiiigh, well time to juggle a doctor's waiting room and a long online union mtg at the same time, during which I cannot make myself feel better sidechatting 'I feel like both of us would be happier if I was performing fellatio right now' because Jeff is a tree. but Crouton graciously agreed to take that text if it comes down to it, like #breakincaseofemergency
song tbd
