I haven't read over my post of fourteen hours ago but I was thinking about deleting it. Of course, I don't do that.
That was the worst of it though. I vented. I watched weeds and read slashdot until 6am. I slept until 2pm. And now... well, now I'm happy again. Seven hours behind schedule in terms of work, but I can handle that. I'm happy :).
Hi, people who still remember this exists. I think I can count that number on one finger, zero-indexed. Or perhaps using Byzantine counting - they would use the thumb to indicate one of three positions on each other finger, thus counting to twelve on each hand.
It's five past fucking three in the morning and that's the best I've got. Grand final day today. I didn't even know who was playing until I overheard a discussion Thursday night. I only know who won because #afl was a trending topic on twitter. I was invited to a grand final party and even was marked as "attending" on facebook -- but I had work to do. Behold, the fruits of my labour: http://rosabercrombie.com. For a wordpress theme and some uploads it sure as shit took long enough. I got the brief in May. Final copy in July. It's now the end of September, four weeks after "just a couple of tweaks" were sent through. I tried to outsource, twice, but other people are smarter than me and know how to say know. You know that's even on my fucking performance review? "Michael needs to learn how to say NO!" - literally. Direct quote. Capitals and exclamation mark and everything. My boss thinks I'm fucking five. It's kind of a problem I'm used to though. "And Michael because you're young, just in age..." We call that institutionalised discrimination. But I've given up caring.
You know what I like about twitter? The anonymity. People like @mspiratesocks who I started following after we agreed about something #qanda related and now she gets excited about me crushing on work crush. What's sad is how much I have to embellish life even for twitter. But the anonymity is nice. Knowing my mum and colleagues and the vast majority of my friends will never read my 140 character comments about life. It's great technology but it hurts my attention span.
So, 3.13 and I still haven't gotten around to why I'm anxty enough to write a blog. Well, I'm off my meds. Let's rewind a bit. I've been off meds for a while. Then my father died and shit got well fucked up and our family doctor refused to see us because of the controversy surrounding that and I missed four days of work for sick leave without a doctors certificate so I went to the doctor just down the road from me and got meds. Which were great at improving my mood but fucking suck otherwise. I didn't think negatively at all. But I could hardly think. My mind would work at a third its usual speed; I couldn't wake up in the morning; I had no motivation; I didn't CARE about anything; I couldn't even write a single line of code (hence delays in websites). So after six? weeks I made the executive decision to take myself off my medication (fuck the doctor who said I had to be on it at least six months; fuck him and the office where they won't give me an appointment in the week I call; fuck them and their policy of not issuing retrospective doctors certificates even when the illness is on file but when I didn't see them that day. Let me get this straight: I have to wait a week to see them; I have an illness which manifests in not leaving my bed for days at a time with an irrational fear of communicating with people -- but they can't possibly certify that unless they see me on the day. Well, walk up the fucking hill and say hi then, hey?)
So anyway, I know it's a bad idea from a Michael-not-feeling-sad perspective but I've given up on that. It's been much, much better from a Michael-doing-shit-that-needs-to-get-done perspective. I'm still behind but I'm much closer to catching up.
Of course the flip side is it's 3.21 and I'm crying for no apparent reason. That's not true. There is a clear reason, I'm just too embarrassed even for this forum. I'm twenty two years old and need to get the fuck over myself. The whole "nobody understands me (except possibly morrisey)" thing was ALWAYS a joke and is meant to be a joke about emo ironic seventeen year olds. It's not meant to be my lament at twenty two (TWENTY FUCKING TWO) years old.
You know Nikky is engaged. She's engaged and I haven't had sex in (censored). How the fuck did she get the better half of that deal. It's her birthday today. Happy birthday Nikky. I don't hate you, I'm just bitter and jealous. I can think of no better present; you always wanted me to be bitter.
So, grand final day, apparently a big deal. I missed it, as expected, and I don't mind. I did get one message telling me I should be at the party I piked on, and I appreciate that at least. But this evening I came home and watched shit on TV (well, actually, there was a rather nice French film with Audrey Tautou in a different role to the one she normally plays but it really pissed me off because life isn't like that. Life is like the first bit of the movie, where she gets fired for being compassionate and has to leave her house early because her room-mate has a date and her mother doesn't really want her home for the weekend and there are weirdos on the train and it's shit and you fall in the rain and break your nose and have to go to hospital... life is like that. Life isn't that it's all been leading up to meeting your one true love because it's the full moon and venus is ascending [I'm pretty sure astrologers doon't even give a shit about the phase of the moon but what the fuck do I know about astrology]. There was a nice scene with a taxi driver actually, telling three stories from his life. One about the broken clothes peg that made his underwear fall off the line and onto the balcony of a neighboring apartment, in which he met his future wife. One about the time he ate a kiwi fruit, had an allergic reaction so couldn't go out to the motorcross race with his son the next day. His son was killed in an accident, his wife maimed. His wife left him after that and he gave up. So he took a huge cocktail of painkillers and anti-depressants which he knew would kill him. With all these pills in his mouth he went to the sink -- and due to a broken gasket they'd turned off the water. He struggled to find SOMETHING and all that there was was a bottle of cooking oil. So he drank that, washed down the pills and threw up the whole lot. So now he drives a taxi.)
I think I got distracted. The point was I only got contacted twice this evening: once because Lily wanted her hard drive back and once because Tess couldn't figure out how to use her TV. She figured it out before I could send instructions. And then twitter's trending topics go to #iamsinglebecause. Fuck you twitter, fuck you.
I'm angry and alone and anxty and terribly, terribly depressed. Not in a don't-want-to-get-out-of-bed way, more in an anxty and alone and angry and sad way. Just so much is so sad. I refuse to even think about things that really are sad. I don't know what I could do about them. I think I'll go for a walk. Sure it's three in the morning in sandy bay and it's raining and there's nowhere conceivable for me to go and I've been putting off getting a glass of water for the last hour because it's too far away... but you never know, I might. I'm not going for a walk, who am I kidding. I'm getting a glass of water then I'm coming back to bed to sleep.
Sorry Clara. I know this isn't what you were hoping would pop up in your feed,