(or: watch me ramble for gods know how long. no, seriously. I’m already on my third beer by the the time I put this parenthetical area up on this post because, y’know what, it’s my day off and fuck it, why not.)

Jamie’s nickname for me is “Turtle.” For a myriad of reasons.

He says it’s because I don’t get in a hurry for anything, I “don’t age” (dude, I’ve got some awesome genes. I still look like I’m in my teens, although I’m finally starting to look like I’m around 18 instead of 15. yeaah sure it’ll be great when I’m in my 40s and look like I’m in my 20s, but it gets kinda creepy when little old people hit on me because they think I’m 15 and I’m really working my way to 30.).

I’m cold-blooded–an oddity because I am, in reality, a homo sapien sapien, a human being, therefore a warm-blooded entity. However, I am always fucking cold. I can walk around our little city’s yearly fair, and I will be in pants and a hoodie, and complaining about it being cold.  (aka: “The Carnies are in town. Watch your tills; you will get robbed and cheated.” I’m not talking about all traveling carnivals and fairs, I’m talking about the traveling fair that comes to us. Last year, we had a guy try to pass off counterfeit $20 bills on tissue paper. This year one of them bought a grilled-cheese maker and cooler, kept the reciept, and then returned both of them when they were packing up and leaving. We had to accept them. Everyone involved on my end (including me) was pissed off.)

I am cold-blooded. People think I’m weird when it’s 24 degrees outside and I’m in two jackets, a thermal shirt, and earmuffs while waiting at the bus stop. I don’t care how goofy I look, at least I’m warm. And some days, I’m wearing my super-duper long Doctor Who scarf because that thing is warm and keeping my face warm.

I cling to Jamie when I’m asleep, much to his dismay. I refuse to get out of bed until he turns the heat on (because he’s warm-blooded and firmly believes that 24-degrees outside means that the house needs to be 52-degrees and “it’s still hot.”)…he also has a tendency to open the windows in the bedroom when he knows it’s going to be below freezing.

Earlier today, Jamie posted a meme pic on my fb page that was that image of Yzma with a giant hat on her head and a birthday cake in front of her. It says: “When I was little, I wanted to be a Disney Princess. But as I get older, I realize I’m just Yzma.” (SIC).

I responded with: “I never wanted to be a Princess when I was younger, I wanted to be a ninja turtle.”

I hit “enter” and then realized. Wait. I am a turtle. So, I responded, again, “I just realized I am a ninja turtle ;)”

It’s gotten to where I’ve posted about wanting to be a “zen turtle” on my fb page. (I want to try to be more zen-like. I want to work towards stopping being so stressed out. my job stresses me out; my, as I steal the phrase from one of my favorite authors Sam Starbuck, “ducklings” stress me out; my bosses stress me out (I seriously stopped my immediate manager and asked her “When all of this is over, do you want me to buy you wine?” She said she’d rather have “dark lager” so I’m either going to get her a gift card to Barrel Chest–a shop that I looooove–or go to Barrel Chest and buy her some of my favorite dark lagers (including Voodoo, because, seriously, they need it))

I stress out in general. I’ve got that thing where, when I stress out too much, the muscle of my heart expands and grates against the lining. This is especially fun around coworkers who firmly believe I’m having a heart attack and I have to fend them off with reminding them that it is a medical condition that I don’t even remember the name of and am too lazy/forgetful to look up the medical terminology for.

I have a lot of medical bills, I have a lot of regular bills. I stress. I try to not stress and do stuff to de-stress, but it doesn’t help all of the time.

Wow, this has gotten really out of hand. fuck it.

But yeah. I want to be more zen-like. I had gotten to a point…kind of but not quite like that, at one time in my life (it way waaaaaay away from being zen-like. the aftermath was not pretty). I think it will help my maddness a bit. It will help with my stress at work.

I also realize that I need to speak with the psychologist with all of this. The increase of homicidal thoughts (she continues to be happy with the fact that I use my homicidal urges towards fictional stories. we agree that it is healthier). It’s not something that I’m happy to admit to. I’ve been working towards trying to stop this.

I also realize that I should probably make an appoinment to see a friend of ours (they are a licenced therapist who works towards more homeopathic areas. they do singing bowl classes, teach at various universities, etc. they are super awesome and I love them to death) because I think that, maybe, they can help me work towards being a little more centered in my life. They understand the use of chakras and different things (they had an urge one day to give me a tarot deck. It is a happy deck that gives very upbeat readings. The deck likes me and is not begrudging like my other deck, which I try to use, but is very…manic)

The whole thing makes me realize that stress increases my hallucinations, the paranoia, the apathy towards my job, and the increase of hatred towards some of my “ducklings” and towards a good portion of my customers (it doesn’t help that one of the other supervisors agreed that we should knock the hell out of one of the ducklings). The whole thing makes me realize what a failure I’ve become (why haven’t I created a fictional book yet? I had all of these ideas, all of these outlines. and I’ve got nothing. what the fuck)

But then I realize I haven’t brushed my hair in days, and I’m getting one hell of a knot in the back of my head. (I’ve showered, I’ve washed my hair. I just haven’t brushed my hair. it’s amazing what pulling your hair back in a bun can do).

And then I come to the realization that, yet again, I am surrounded by fucking idiots. And while I may have forgotten to brush my hair for the…third or fourth time this week, I’ve at least remembered to take my medication (which has kind of helped the increasing anger), at least I’m not a fucking idiot who’s decided the best course of action is to repeat every. little. thing. someone else said as though it is the truth. At least I’m not a fucking idiot who is spreading idiocy like a bacterial infection on facebook. And I realize, yet again, that I am the smartest person in the room.

The last part is not good. This is part of my psychosis. I see it, realize what it is, and realize that I really need to speak with my doctor.

On the one hand, I can’t get fired from my job (I can get demoted, but not fired), but on the other I don’t know how much longer I can take running my ass off, not being able to get any break besides my lunch hour (even with fucking idiots demanding to know when I come back), how much longer I can stand people chewing with their mouth open and being able to pop gum while talking (how the fuck do you do that??).

I’m almost at the point where I am going to tell people: You are a grown adult, either chew with your mouth shut or take that gum out. I refuse to speak with, or be near, you until you learn to not behave like an animal that you are intimidating because I cannot stand that sound and if you continue to refuse, I will have to walk away, call for someone else to help you, or commit assault because I will punch you in the throat.

There is no reason why you need to be talking with your mouth full, nor is there any reason why you need to be popping your gum like a three year old chomping on gerber fruit puffs as though they are going out of style and have not learned the concept of manners. You are old enough to know better. And if you continue to insist on being near me, I will lock myself in the office and demand that someone else deal with you or I will take off my shoe and beat you, repeatedly, over the head until you stop.

I should make a business card that has all of this on it. (honestly, I will take the “lock myself in the office” route because I am still, currently, aware of the whole pre-meditated area of crime. I’ve written about it, but y’know what. Sometimes people lash out without thinking)

I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to last before I can’t understand what’s the hallucination (a gremlin’s face through merchandise) and what’s real (speaking with a coworker for instance). My job has exacerbated my brain malfunction and, oddly, I’m alright with that. This means I can be crazy, say weird shit and piss off customers (because sometimes I really cannot stop myself), and not really get in trouble for it.

Maybe one day I’ll be too crazy for my job and I’ll be able to stay home, love on my stupid ass dogs (because Bug, while I love her to death, is a stupid fucking dog who takes life for granted now–which is awesome and I am so happy for. I’d rather have to clean up her accidents every day than not have her at all). Considering I’m on a weirdly happy decline to madness, hopefully it’ll be sooner than later.

And hey, if it’s sooner. That means we’ll have to spend less money in bus fare.

I should stop typing. I’m already over 1700 words (much more than the daily limit I set for myself), I’m rambling like crazy, and I really want to find something to listen to. I’m also keeping an eye on my fb page to see if I can spark an outrage (some fucking idiot is coming to a local civic center) and I hope to piss some idiot off.

See, there I go again. I firmly believe I am the smartest person in the room. Even if that room is my own facebook feed.


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