Laziness has become my frenemy. Fuck that, because I fucking hate that word. Laziness is my best friend. Okay. Top ten. Of course my best friend (or any of the people I hold in my inner circle) and I argue when we disagree and sometimes are bad influences on each other. But at the end of the day, we care about each other and when we don’t talk, I miss her. If I could see her (or any of them) whenever I wanted I would. In a heartbeat. So, why in the world would I fight my laziness? I’ve stopped trying and gone with the flow.
I have a great time with my laziness. As soon as I get home from work, I tend to take off my pants or on even lazier days, I just pass the fuck out wearing whatever I had worn to work. This is pretty nasty given I work in community mental health, and there’s a fuck ton of construction happening at my branch right now. But ya know, I don’t wanna piss off my laziness. In fact, a couple weeks ago, I did nothing. I literally stayed in bed for a couple days and gave a giant middle finger to the real world. Not because I “hate” the world. But ya know, I love my laziness.
Perhaps, I’m deluding myself. Perhaps this is what depression looks like when I have to go to work. I mean, I do have to force myself to reach out to friends to hang out. As well as go out with my person on the weekends or on the rare weeknights we hang out. I know I need to be more diligent about going to kickboxing and eating healthy and not stressing about work. When I say need, I mean I think it’s a better life choice than going all Jabba-y on my bed after work. That’s not to say I don’t mind not doing anything every now and then.
There are things coming up that are exciting. Things are changing. Hopefully, I’ll be able to keep my wits about me. And hopefully, it’s just being on the rag that’s making me so lackluster at the moment. To find a silver lining, at least I don’t have terrible allergies/hay fever/SAD at the moment.
Apparently, the goal of getting re-wagoned (or getting back on the wagon as some have called it) isn’t going to happen without effort. I know, I know, I was shocked too. Change happens all the time. I mean, it’s part of life. At least that’s what I tell my clients. However, this doesn’t equate to the change I want. I could site multiple examples but then it’d just be a whiney and bitchy, and that’s not what my blog’s about. Fine. Fine. Fine. Today’s blog isn’t going to be that today. It’s going to be about how life is a cruel fucker and every time I attempt to better myself it kicks me in the nuts.
Side note: How in the hell do we live in a culture where “having the balls” to do something means being brave enough? Being brave implies a certain strength. I’ve kicked a few testicles in my time (sometimes on purpose but mostly on accident), and never once have said balls “taken it like a man”. Also what the fuck is the deal with referring to them as junk. So back to the question, how is having a body part occasionally referred to as junk considered something grand, especially when they can’t even take a gentle tap with someone’s foot???
Back to the blog: Admittedly, my life is quite good right now. Really good actually. I like my friends and my person (which means no online dating for me), and my family only drives me crazy some of the time. Hell! I even did comicon this past weekend. However, there’s the whole SAD thing that happens this time of the year with me. I don’t necessarily get super depressed, but it does become more challenging to put on not pajamas. And then the shit hit the fan at work, and suddenly, things became way more difficult-beyond wearing something other than pajamas.
I realize it’s all first world problems. I shouldn’t bitch so much. It’s just hard sometimes when there are rocks on your chest… or so it feels like. This week so far has been better than last. And I guess that’s the thing. Change happens, because emotions ebb and flow. I know this is true because I tell my clients that as well. And I’m not a liar. So really, there’s no other conclusion I can come to.
Not only did I stop blogging, I stopped going to the kickboxing parlor as much right before I left for my trip and over the holidays. I mean. I could tell you all the reasons why I haven’t gone more than once a week since Halloween. But when it’s all said and done, it doesn’t really matter. Mostly because none of those reasons are making it easier to get back on the healthy bandwagon, but also because I gained like 10 pounds. Sorry foreigners, I don’t know the conversions for weight. And I could look it up, but I’m far too lazy for that noise.
I’m starting my second week of going to the kickboxing parlor multiple times a week. My legs have dully ached for a week now. Okay. Slight exaggeration. But for a good portion of the past week, it has hurt to move. Re-getting healthy is hard. Not hard like dealing with diabetes or triple bypass angioplasties. But hard like let me sit here and whine like a little bitch. Sort of like when I know I need to go to the dentist or the doctor or buy new underwear. I realize this is all part of living a healthy lifestyle. Well, maybe not the underclothes part. but maybe. I’d be interested if there are studies about the link between new undies and level of health. I know what I’m doing if I ever go back for my Psy D or PhD.
When I was fucking off at the end of the year, I never stopped to consider how much whiny bitch getting healthy again would inspire. Yes, I’ve started going to the parlor again. Yes, I’ve started blogging again, at least semi-regularly. But there’s the whole doctor/dentist thing I’ve been avoiding. I realize that it’s for the best, and I should set a good example for the little people in my life. BUT… Okay, I don’t actually have a legit excuse for not making an appointment for either doctor. Perhaps, if I go to bed now, I won’t have to think about those things.
It’s difficult to fuck up chicken noodle soup. It’s also difficult to fuck up nachos, but I’ve had fucked up nachos. And perhaps, I love the chicken noodle soup too much for it to ever be labelled as “fucked up”. I used to think it was difficult to fuck up a W-4 (an American piece of shit form you fill out when you become hired by someone so the government knows how much to take away from you). But guess what!!! (I mean besides the fact I’m not a fan of the government taking any amount of money from me.) I fucked up my W-4 when I got hired a year and a half ago.
So, if you’ve been reading my blog for any amount of time, you may recall that I was unemployed for a long time when I first started writing this blog. I’ll refresh your memory or catch you up if you’re new… During my unemployment, I “may have” gotten into the habit of waking up in the afternoon. Not just a little afternoon, but like 3 or 4 hours after noon. Therefore when I got hired, I had to readjust my schedule; like throw myself into jet lag on purpose. Needless to say, when I went to my orientation at the crack of dawn (9 am), I may have been a bit loopy.
Orientation for me was when I filled out all the forms! Not the silly forms like who to contact in case of emergency. But forms like the W-4 and my direct deposit forms. Unfortunately, the finance dude at work misread my direct deposit form, and it took far too long to straighten out. Last year I didn’t really pay attention when I filed, although I thought my return seemed a bit small. Then today I was doing a rough draft of my taxes and had to pay… a lot. Pardon me?! Just how in the fuck did that happen???
Apparently, since I don’t have kids nor own my home and make a certain amount, I need to have more taken out of my check. Really government? You can suck my dick. This has nothing to do with the current state of politics in the US. I’ve been anti-taxes since my first pay check a month after I turned 16. However, this is the first time I’ve made a certain amount. I can’t help but think that I done fucked up on my form when I filled it out a year and a half ago. Right so long story short, I’m drinking adult cherry cola in an attempt to yank on my big girl panties on and redo my W-4 making sure they’re deducting enough.
I’ve flown a lot this year. Okay, perhaps “a lot” is a relative term. I’m going to be flying down to San Diego in a few minutes. Again “a few minutes is relative”. Anyway, relativity aside, I fucking hate the airport. Anyone will do. I went on my first flight at the age of six, and it’s only gotten worse. Thanks a lot Obama. Wait, that’s not right. Thanks a lot Trump. Hang on while I throw up in my mouth.
I would write more but I need to pee before boarding. I’m a fat girl about to go on a plane. I’ve heard the rumors. Myth busters be damned.
Know when you finally decide to get back on the blogging horse, and you write a beautiful blog full of swears, and then you post it and decide to edit it only in the process you end up deleting the body of the blog? Oh. So it’s just me? Fuuuuuck. But surely you can relate on some level. Such as that one time you decided to get back into regularly going to the kickboxing parlor the next day, only to become violently sick in front of your new person and his best friend and not only are you embarrassed as fuck because they cleaned out your sick out of your car but you now also had to postpone your triumphant return to your favorite stress reliever? No. Okay I got way too specific there.
I feel like some days I just need someone to hang out in my wake tidying up the destruction behind me. Right. I’m being really over-dramatic. And when I wrote it I did so in a voice that makes everything a question with the influx at the end. Influx is that the correct word? I don’t know. This is why I need someone to live on my shoulder or pocket whom I could get these answers I need. Also, I’d have them bring me bagels and other bread products. Maybe alcohol too.
Right. So. Anyway. The whole point of my last blog wasn’t some statement about the nothingness of weaving a tapestry of profanity. It was about putting my post holiday big girl pants on and start making healthy and fun choices again. Really? I could have summed up the lost blog, which was a few paragraphs, just in a few words?! What the hell? Seriously. I am going to attempt to not fuck off any more. I will wear trousers and study and be a productive member of the world. I will.