bad days

Just start writing. Just start writing... if I just start writing, then something will have to be said, right? Something will appear on the page. The screen, whatever. Something will be said. Even if I can't predict what it'll be. Something.

So I'll just start writing.
And writing... But what if nothing's said? What if I can't think of anything to write? Then I'll just keep writing.

Sigh.

I need a job. A real job, that can get me through the next year. But not just get me through. I want to be able to drive to the next town to see my boyfriend without asking him for gas money. I'm sick of it.

- I wrote that yesterday morning. It was somewhat prophetic.

~

What a miserable fucking day. 

I was down yesterday, no doubt. I got an email right before bed the night before, from my landlord, saying my dogs had been causing problems and he was tired of hearing about it. I hadn't heard about it at all, so I didn't know what was being said. I went to sleep - eventually - worried, stressing over the unknown. I had weird, unhappy but not-nightmarish dreams. In the morning I got the whole story about my dogs. 

Just one dog, really: my boxer, Roxy. She's a cranky old bitch, to be perfectly honest. When I leave the house she has to be locked in her crate. Otherwise, she'll get into the trash. If she were to get outside unsupervised, she'd wait on the front porch until a dog smaller than her shows up, then shover her way out the gate to go all alpha-dog on the poor thing. Other than that, there isn't much in life that inspires her to get off her butt. She's a great cuddler, if you don't mind 70 pounds of dog in your lap. Well, a couple weeks ago, she got out. My son had gone into the house while I was at work, let the dogs out of their crate, then left the house, leaving the front door wide open. So Roxy got out. And when the neighbor came out with their little terrier, she terrorized them. Because she's a bitch. And I just found out about all this yesterday morning. There was much apologetic-emailing done. I'm trying to set up a face-to-face meeting so I can apologize in person. Bah.

BUT yesterday was going to be a great day! Because I was picking Archer up from the airport in the afternoon, and DAMMIT I MISSED HIM. So I drove to the next town, where he lives and where I was dropping off my son to be babysat, did the dropping off of the son, drove to Archer's house to pick up his vehicle (because he much prefers to ride in his own when he gets home from any trip, and my truck didn't have the gas to get to the airport, which is about 90 miles away)... and realized that I'd left his keys at my house, 30 miles in the wrong direction. I had to drive all the way back to my house, then back to his, before I could drive to the airport. Which, of course, made me late to pick him up from the airport.

I am so very, very sick of the way my brain doesn't function. 

And when Archer was so kind to me about the whole thing... I lost it. Cried like a baby. Well, maybe not like a baby. I managed to avoid actually blubbering. Barely. I don't know what it was... some sort of mix of relief (that he wasn't yelling at me), guilt (because I fucked up again), and ... something painful that told me he deserved better treatment from me.  Better planning on my part. 

And when he said (nicely) that he thought it would help me if I planned things ahead better than I do, it was another stab; I knew that already - why can't I just do it? What is so wrong with me, I thought, that I can't put that good advice to use?

I took him home and got back into my own truck, then went to pick up my son. As I was waiting for him to find his ever-missing sock at the sitter's house, I tried to think about what I was doing for the rest of the week. What would I need? The extra trip between towns to get Archer's keys from my house had burned through my gas, and I had no cash. This meant I would have to ask him for some. So I did. I called him back and asked him for gas money, the same evening I was late picking him up from the airport. Because I'm classy like that. FML. More guilt, and... more kindness from Archer. Who, by the way, is far better known for his temper than his patience. 

The moral of yesterday's story: Archer loves me - he isn't going anywhere, despite my... issues. And that's how I was able to sleep last night without tossing and turning. 

I found this on facebook.