stikfigur

Yes, well, I am up in the middle of the night with my defective back stabbing and crunching away and the bittersweet narcotics are doing nothing save for stewing my mind in a veritable opiatic pressure-cooker. Anxiety is eating me up this week. My family is selling our house. We've been there for 20 years and, even though I have not lived there for 8 years, save recently, it's very much home. And it's gorgeous. We don't want to part with it, all the beautiful trees and the fields and the barn and all of that good stuff, but sometimes you have no choice, I guess. Money forces your hand sometimes. What's that Verve lyric? "You're a slave to money than you die." That's it. Yeah, thanks Richard, I would've never figured that one out. I am supposed to work in 3 hours as well. I may call in. I've never done it at this job so....fuck it. I've got a good reason anyways. Or maybe I'll just tough it out like I always do. Like I LOVE to. Sorry about the self-indulgent, self-pitying nature of this, my first, journal entry. A strange time to start but, then again, I can't think of a better time. And there probably won't be any for a long time in any case. Not until I am moved, settled and sitting in front of this computer in some other place, some other city. Somewhere I can't even speculate about. Goodnight random strangers who may or may not be reading this.