Mentally, I am at a place where I was shortly before I left my last job. Now, mind you, I have no intentions on leaving anytime soon (read: no prospects), but something in me kind of snapped this afternoon. Nothing in particular happened — just a realization that I may be immobile and confined to a nursing home in 30 years. That means I have three decades left in which to truly live. And am I living now, missing car and loan payments and robbing from Peter to pay Paul? That if I want to go out for dinner, then there goes part of the cable bill? That good intentions are punishable by meetings? That someday I’ll be lying apt like a fucking tilted turtle and won’t be able to get back on my feet again for good?
There are several areas at the Veggie Patch in which I’ve been begging for more responsibility. A staff member is trying to see that I get those jobs. I almost laughed, because she’s presenting her case to the same folks who shoot it down every time. Their excuse is that I can’t handle what I’ve already got. What they don’t know is that I do handle more than they know and that it’s the random, rare detail that catches their attention that is my undoing in their eyes.
I’m not afraid of the big, bad meeting. Yet my lunch doesn’t know in which direction it wishes to lurch, but it’s headed somewhere and it ain’t gonna be pretty. 🙁
I don’t know. I should be working. I’m swamped. But that’s somehow when I find the most time to blog. 😉
On iTunes: Jane Siberry, “Hush”