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I thought my week was improving.
But now it seems that I can't express a distinction that makes something make sense (and therefore need to be shouted at) and if I express pain and frustration about the actions of a third party (which third party understood why I was hurt already, damnit) I also need to be shouted at.
Here's to badly mangled trust, extreme frustration at my inability to communicate that has gotten to the level that it's seriously impairing my ability to communicate, and not knowing anymore if I have the strength to stay up here on the surface rather than just crawling into a hole and staying there until I rot.
On the bright side, this doesn't have me in the nausea-inducing state of breakdown; this is the more familiar severe depressive fit.
I really wanna take a mulligan on this fucking month.
I can't find my Hitchhikers' Guide scripts, which is a shame; there's a Marvin speech I want to quote.
Hah. Okay. And I found the book I was looking for earlier, too.
(The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, radio version, Fit the Eleventh. By Douglas Noel Adams.)
But now it seems that I can't express a distinction that makes something make sense (and therefore need to be shouted at) and if I express pain and frustration about the actions of a third party (which third party understood why I was hurt already, damnit) I also need to be shouted at.
Here's to badly mangled trust, extreme frustration at my inability to communicate that has gotten to the level that it's seriously impairing my ability to communicate, and not knowing anymore if I have the strength to stay up here on the surface rather than just crawling into a hole and staying there until I rot.
On the bright side, this doesn't have me in the nausea-inducing state of breakdown; this is the more familiar severe depressive fit.
I really wanna take a mulligan on this fucking month.
I can't find my Hitchhikers' Guide scripts, which is a shame; there's a Marvin speech I want to quote.
Hah. Okay. And I found the book I was looking for earlier, too.
Googoogoogoogoo. Ddddddrrrrpp. Errrrrrrrrk. Zootlewurdlezootlewurdlezootlewurdle. Fringggggg.
F...f...f...f...Fact! I ache, therefore I am. Or in my case I am therefore I ache. Oh look - I appear to be lying at the bottom of a very deep dark hole. That seems a familiar concept. What does it remind me of? Ah, I remember. Life. That's what lying at the bottom of a deep dark hole reminds me of. Life. Perhaps if I just lie here and ignore it it will go away again.
Or then again, perhaps not. To be perfectly frank with myself, if it didn't go away as a result of me falling fifteen miles through the air and a further mile through solid rock I'm probably stuck with it for good. Why don't I just lie here anyway? Why don't I climb out? Why don't I just go zootlewurdle? Does it matter? Even if it does matter, does it matter that it matters?
Zootlewurdle, zootlewurdle, zootlewurdle. . . .
(The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, radio version, Fit the Eleventh. By Douglas Noel Adams.)
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I've got the most recent Flash Girls CD in. It's playing "I've got my fingers in my ears" at me.
Allow me to quote the third verse and chorus... ['it' being 'fingers in ears'
"It works well when I'm in trouble.
It works well when my boss gets mad.
And right this minute it's the only solution
To the worst day that I've ever had.
Relationships are funny.
I know that ours is going to be just fine.
If we face the world together
And your response is just like mine.
I've got my fingers in my ears, going la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la
I've got my fingers in my ears, going la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la
Going la-la-la-laaaaaa. [etc.]"
I dunno. My CD player wanted to share. So.