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I had an interesting dream last night, brought about by having watched too much Firefly the past few days.
( But where was Wash?! )
Lynda and I had an okay time yesterday. Dinner was enjoyable, and then there was much driving around. I regret telling her my problem, because she can't help me (and therefore, I will definitely not be sharing my troubles with any of you, since you won't be able to help me, either). I did realize that what I was trying to say in my too-long-for-its-own-good post on Thursday was that I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't. And I almost cried. I managed to hold back, but we'll see how I fare tonight, with work and its stresses.
However, upon waking up this morning, I realized something else: the grass may be greener on the other side, but, grass is a plant. Plants wither and die. Only astroturf lasts forever, and if it's grass you want, then forever it ain't. What's to say that it (dying) won't happen, or, if you don't stick around long enough for it to happen, what's the point? If you have very sickly grass, maybe more care than you thought was necessary is, in fact, required. Thinking that made me feel a little better, but not entirely. It also brought up a new worry. Guys, I really don't think I'm going to be well for a long time. I very well may not be quite right until we're a bit into next year. All I ask is that you don't be scared, because there's only one person who should be, and she is me. Don't be scared of me, and don't be scared for me. Please.
Somewhat unrelatedly, it seems as though every time I think of something sad, the Coin Song plays. I love the Coin Song because it's beautiful and sad, but it's beginning to mock me, it seems. (If you need an explanation about the significance of the Coin Song, just poke me.)
I must find something to do in the three hours I have before I need to get ready for work. I'm scheduled to go until eleven tonight, but as it's the Saturday after Thanksgiving, I fully expect to be in the store until around one in the morning. And they'd like me to return, fresh as a daisy, for nine. The timing of all this in(s)anity is not the best, that's for sure.
( But where was Wash?! )
Lynda and I had an okay time yesterday. Dinner was enjoyable, and then there was much driving around. I regret telling her my problem, because she can't help me (and therefore, I will definitely not be sharing my troubles with any of you, since you won't be able to help me, either). I did realize that what I was trying to say in my too-long-for-its-own-good post on Thursday was that I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't. And I almost cried. I managed to hold back, but we'll see how I fare tonight, with work and its stresses.
However, upon waking up this morning, I realized something else: the grass may be greener on the other side, but, grass is a plant. Plants wither and die. Only astroturf lasts forever, and if it's grass you want, then forever it ain't. What's to say that it (dying) won't happen, or, if you don't stick around long enough for it to happen, what's the point? If you have very sickly grass, maybe more care than you thought was necessary is, in fact, required. Thinking that made me feel a little better, but not entirely. It also brought up a new worry. Guys, I really don't think I'm going to be well for a long time. I very well may not be quite right until we're a bit into next year. All I ask is that you don't be scared, because there's only one person who should be, and she is me. Don't be scared of me, and don't be scared for me. Please.
Somewhat unrelatedly, it seems as though every time I think of something sad, the Coin Song plays. I love the Coin Song because it's beautiful and sad, but it's beginning to mock me, it seems. (If you need an explanation about the significance of the Coin Song, just poke me.)
I must find something to do in the three hours I have before I need to get ready for work. I'm scheduled to go until eleven tonight, but as it's the Saturday after Thanksgiving, I fully expect to be in the store until around one in the morning. And they'd like me to return, fresh as a daisy, for nine. The timing of all this in(s)anity is not the best, that's for sure.
