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27 April 2015, 10:38

I’m almost 100%.

Feeling better and I have proof. I’m sitting here STALLING (watching Star Trek 3), procrastinating. Putting off the tready time.

I’ve done little since 2015 began. I’ve exercised. I’ve sent resumes. I’ve did the domestic goddess thing. Even did some freelance for my old company, of which I was not excited to do.

A) It squicks me out hearing Christopher Lloyd speaking Klingon. And B) I don’t think I can forgive whoever was in charge of casting to replace Kirstie Alley as Savick.

Trying to get the motivation back. Motivation, actually, and optimism for ANYTHING. I am silently and tremendously frustrated that I’m not getting responses from resumes. I’ve got a little voice in the back of my head hoping that I get the summer off, which another voice is shouting back at it to get real and shut the fuck up. I’ve got the ultimate perpetual futility generator (my house), in that, you clean up, it gets dirty, you clean up, it gets dirty, you clean up, it gets dirty. There is very little reward in futility.

I was hanging on to the small consolation that even though my career is in the toilet at present, I have my health, but ten days of being sick wiped that out. The only things that came out of being an ailing, smelly lump that slept all the time is that I got my sleepies fixed a bit, I lost 7 pounds, and it couldn’t have cleaned my pipes out better if I ate a gallon of Draino. I still think I had dysentery or Malaria, or a whole host of other things I found on WedMD. WedMD is the hypochondriacal’s best friend.

The south is trying to make up its mind as to whether it’s going to be cold as fuck or hot as hell. And we have foliage, so the nice part of spring/summer is gone – the no-bugs parts. Now they are showing up everywhere. Every type of insect you can imagine is crawling on my face as I sleep, making its way to my nose to build a nest and have its babies. I can feel them. Yeah, I can. Feel them. When I sleep. Not just my imagination.

And I’m not allowed to kill certain ones, of which I can’t identify, because Doug won’t let me. He says they are GOOD bugs, ones that eat other bad bugs blah blah blahdee blah. There are no GOOD bugs. Only DEAD bugs. DEAD, FLUSHED BUGS. They ALL want you dead, these bugs. That’s why they come into the house and up your nose. We are a plague, an infection on their planet. If it weren’t for us, the humans, THEY’D be building cities, driving Priuses, and starring on the Bachelor. There’s this thing, that looks like a mutant, giant mosquito, that apparently I’m not suppose to kill, because it eats mosquitos. WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF SITUATION IS THAT? I’ve got this buick sized bug next to me that is suppose to be my friend. Nothing that evil looking can be my friend. I have yet to see it go after a single flipping mosquito, but it has dive bombed me a couple of times, and yet I’m suppose to let this fucker live.

As you read, you are thinking, “fuck a duck, she needs to get out of the house.”

Who knows, it might have gotten to that point, but I’ve got high speed cable internet and the bill is paid up current. Just downloaded all 12 Star Trek Movies and plan to watch at least 5 of them. None of the new ones. They violate my sense of cannon and I need less things turning me into one of those cranky old people railing about the good old days or the genetic failings of today’s society and its offspring.

Okay. If I’m going to do this, I’m doing it now. Getting off my ass now.

Really. I am.

I am.



Bots. Bots suck. The are as bad as mosquitos.