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Diaryland is da bomb I just *have* to tell you how much this all sucks. Who're these other people he's writing about? Who's the freak writing this, anyway? What's gone before. What's going on right now? Where do *you* visit on the web? What're you building right now?


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Another smart-assed remark from Mike
The plight of the poor in the motor society
20:00:00 on 2000-01-25

Remeron ® Day 19 Remeron ®

Feeling:

Sad. The hopelessness experienced by those who are tired and don't want to keep trying.

I have to plead the Fermat excuse and not write, because it's too much to put in this little scrawny bar, so see below. [weak smile]

I had my head stuck into the forward passenger-side fender up to my shoulders, inspecting my brakes. "Well... they look fine to me." I pulled out and let my grandfather, my mother's father, look.

"They look like they're almost new 'uns to me," he agreed and pulled his head out. "Run in, but still fine."

I was perplexed. Something has been occasionally grinding when I tried to stop, and I hadn't been braking as well. It's got to be my brakes. At least, that's the least offensive possibility.

"Well, maybe it's the back ones," ventured my grandfather. Like an idiot, I nodded.

Now understand - I don't like to work on cars. I do, but only when I don't have money. When I spend my time getting greasy instead of sitting at a garage with a book and looking disapprovingly at my watch that's a sign that I have money for parts, but sadly, not labor.

This is not where I want to be.


All the cars I've ever driven had drum brakes in the back. This means that they have brake systems that are sealed and mysterious.

I kept them that way because on my first car, the '75 Chrysler from Hell� I occasionally called "White Dragon" (because it was ancient, big, that off-white color dragons tend to take on and roared along as it went), as a foolish teenager I tried to replace all four sets of brake linings, and when I took one of the brake drums off the internals flew apart. It took me and my father quite a while to get things right again.

Now I leave well enough alone, but fortunately, General Motors seems to be more forgiving.

We ran the brake shoes out a bit (the drums rotated freely; I don't think they were catching at all when I braked), I got out on the road and tested them, and all seemed well enough.

So why did I think I heard something scrape as I braked when I parked my car under the rear carport?

Sigh. My life is so futile.


The Remeron is making me feel a little more able to struggle against my moods, but I think it's teasing me. I mean, I feel more active, my concentration has improved, and I am finally resting when I try to sleep. However, I tend to sleep longer. I think I'm gaining weight (ugh; of course, I need to walk more to counteract that, although my psychiatrist told me that he could prescribe something like Wellbutrin to go with the Remeron to counteract those effects) and it's very hard to get up in the morning, although now it's not just psychological reasons, but now I am just damned groggy in the mornings until I have gotten up and moved around a bit.

Also, these good feelings don't last. They come and go, a lot, and I feel like a yo yo, up and down, up and down, up and down. I feel like somebody's putting them in front of me and when I actually try to use them for something they get snatched away, to somebody's amusement (but certainly not mine).

Anyway, this newfound energy has me facing the fact that my life is seriously broken, so it's time that I fluff up like a flying city rat (a/k/a the pigeon) and do something about it. You know, find a job, have functional relationships, getting back out of this house, going back to school (and maybe even get back on the science track), that sort of thing. Seems reasonable, right?

NOT.

Take today. I tried to get up early like I should be. I set the clock for a little before 6:00 AM so I could get up to walk. Didn't happen. I had asked Moogie to roust me up before she went to work. She tried, but I lay there mumbling, I'm sure. Gillian tried to wake me around 7:15 AM. No dice, I got up, shut down WinFax, and went back to bed. I was soooo tired. More lossage on my part.

Somebody keeps calling my line, rather than the other line used for most voice calls. The only person who calls me a lot and knows that number, or knows that it's right by my head, is Gurugrrl. However, I wake up and fear that it's somebody I sent a r�sum� to that has my number instead of the house number for some reason, like a fax header or something.

I cower instead of answering the phone, for a million reasons: if it's Gurugrrl she'll feel bad for waking me. If it's a job interview, they'll wonder why I'm still in bed. If it's somebody else it'll piss me off. It's not worth it.

I try to call back the people that called me back about r�sum�s I sent out. One isn't in. Another sets up an interview with me for tomorrow afternoon. This sounds like no big deal, but it's the most exhausting thing I've done all day. It's ridiculous, but true. It's taken it out of me.

I can't make anybody truly believe that I live in abject fear of returning phone calls. Calling somebody back means the potential of being rejected. Being questioned. Not being what they want. While some I don't follow up with properly anyway (like the IRS agent in charge of Sara's case), interviews are the absolute worst.

(When I return an interview call, I prepare, compulsively. I get my resume on screen. I put up an editor with the company's name, the person I'm calling, phone number, job details I know, and lots of blank space for me to type. I often pull up their website on a browser. It's ridiculous. I don't sound nervous, usually - I've gotten a handle on that. But I don't like to leave anything to chance anymore.

What's weird is that when I'm working, none of this bothers me so much. What's even weirder is that after an interview, it's like a release; the fear drains away. It's in my past, it can't hurt me now, except for occasionally coming up in the odd nightmare.)

So, this one call to set up an interview, and I'm emotionally drained. The phone rings, but I figure if it's another interview person, I should just go ahead and take it, I'm wasted already so what's a little more?

Nah, I think. I'll screen. I pick it up and whoever it is hangs up, and the answering machine shuts off the remote screening. Whoever it is calls right back, so I screen again.

"Hello, Michael, I was just calling to see if you're arou..." Ahh, it's Gurugrrl. I smile immediately and pick up.

"Hi!" I say into the phone.

And we start to talk. My mind is so scattered by this time, I just want to sit back and listen to her voice. Instead, I've been fidgeting with some files for the client that Xander and I have been going rounds with over this Chinese website. Since I couldn't mail it this morning, I realized I didn't need to burn it (we're talking a whole three minute burn here, it's not much in the way of files, only about thirty megs), and needed to go ahead and get that out of the way today.

But there's something going on contextually that saddens me. Maybe it's how I feel, but something is saddening me more deeply. Maybe it's that I'm not "sweetie" anymore. Maybe it's the language of distance and disparate experience I Gurugrrl and I speak now. Maybe it's because she's active and doing so much, even if she forces herself to do it, and I feel like a failure in comparison, having nothing to add to the discussion. Maybe I wish we could just talk instead of be fidgeting and her trying to fix her computer. Maybe it's because I know she's fence-sitting regarding our relationship and I am afraid that things are fading because the distance breeds distance.

Thinking about this while we talk takes a toll. I get down and curl up into a psychic ball, and she realizes this and wants to know what's wrong. I say nothing because I don't want to talk about it; it sounds ridiculous when I run it through in my head, and I knew I couldn't find the words to express it. She wants to talk, though, and since I won't frustration ensues and she leaves upset. (There's ironic humor in the fact that often she gets upset and doesn't want to talk about it, I press for discussion... well, you get the idea.)


It's not her. It is, but it's isn't. It's everything. It's all too much at once.

I crave stability. With time I'll feel better most of the time, instead of in brief flashes. It's almost time for things to go smoothly.

I have been thinking about things like being able to be productive again. I want a stable, regular relationship. I'm even starting to think about learning again so that I can go back to school, and maybe even grad school beyond that.

To accomplish this, though, I have to have stability, both in my life and mentally. That's the most elusive element of all.

restlessmind


Ancient history:
2013-03-01"You'll be stone dead in a moment!"
2007-08-07I covet fuck you money
2007-07-16My own long, dark tea-time of the soul
2007-07-11My internet experience is lacking
2007-07-10Coincidence



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