Thursday, September 29, 2005

I Haven't My Wit About Me

I'd love to write something funny, but I'm feeling crappy. It's hit me I'm going home for a month, leaving behind my boyfriend, friends, job-- basically my whole life. Granted, I would not have said life without my mother's able care, but I'm not thrilled to live in my goose-border room with the twin bed for a month. The stress of it all is causing me to flip out in unrelated areas of my life-- after an evening of watching America's Next Top Model with the girls, I called the Whatever promptly at 9 to tell him I'd be going to another friend's house for a bit, and he didn't pick up so I figured he was asleep. Then I called at 10 to talk to him about his day, see how his meetings went, and he didn't pick up then either. Usually if he's napping he'll call me back when he wakes up, even if it's late. When I woke up at 7am without word, I sent him a text, aware I was becoming the psycho girlfriend I'd vowed not to be. I got teared up in the shower, my mind going to the worst scenarios. What if he was in the hospital for some reason, if he'd crashed his car, or gotten food poisoning, or something horrible had happened? What if he needed an organ? How would I know? I didn't hear back from him until 8, at which point I called him in response to his text message, trying not to lose it, trying to keep my cool. It didn't work. Transformation into walking Bridget-Jones-stereotype (minus cigarettes, accent and about 25 pounds) complete. I hope that if it weren't for the preparations for my mother's surgery being the week of PMS I'd have handled that better.
Kristen's not in today since the Red Sox have apparently given her strep throat or something so I'm sitting at my desk, doing nothing but getting hysterical about my future, missing parties and television shows and playoff baseball. I can't leave the office since my coworkers who ventured outside have come back sandblasted like old houses from the windblown road dirt outside. I'm stuck inside, mentally pacing, checking my email so much I'm waiting for Yahoo's server to crash.
Hopefully some politician or famous person does something stupid so I can complain and get angry instead of sad. My friend S, way back in 1999, saw me cry one day after a bad day and she proceeded to lose it too. "Why are you crying?" I asked in the halting speech of someone who's been sobbing. "Because you don't cry," she replied, offering me a tissue. "I cry every day. You just get mad to deal with things."
Come on, good people. Distract me.

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