Money and Milk (Travaillez!)


It is harder, of course, to reflect back upon my day rather than futz around with fanfiction.  Or at least it feels that way after a few days of doing it the wrong way round, making up my mission with fiction rather than the travails of the day. I find that each paragraph feels like it’s a battle and have to find some way or another to do win each one. I am balancing a certain amount of sourceless, baseless, trumped-up anxiety.  Most of it centering around the dentist tomorrow, driving and going there.  It’s just a way of keeping my mind scattered rather than focused on writing or finishing up what I have on the table right now.   It has nothing to do with reality.  I have insurance and money to pay, I’ve been brushing my teeth, I have gas in my car and more than that, I have the day off tomorrow.

I really do not have the time to get caught up in that kind of crap. It debilitates me when I want to be tough and and I want to be organized to take advantage of everything a day off could mean for me. So I set the baseless worries aside for the moment, and think of other things.   No sourness.

Tomorrow…it’s meant to be a day for me to do all the things I can do whenever I want, but prefer to do alone.  And situations dictate that is very, very rare.  Especially now that I work at the same place as my sister so we share a commute as well as being roommates.  When I used to live on my own in college, I took it for granted, this gathering of self, getting myself motivated and going, working to please myself by accomplishing a task.  Feeling really rooted in what I want.  Not driving as much, spending a lot of my time just travelling between computer screens with a phone always attached to my hand in case I ever find myself too far away from one or the other, playing games that direct you down a prescribed path,

I want to practice my ukulele.  I can obviously do it with other people in the house and would need to if I ever wanted to get anywhere with my ability, but there’s something very soothing about strumming it, fucking up, but getting better.  And I prefer to struggle away without people.  It’s like I can hear my thoughts travel through their heads and back at me, sharpened, suddenly weapons sheathed in kindness.  Oh, look at her try!  That’s one of the worst somehow. To suck and be pitied for it. To cause laughter, confusion, to have them think it’s one more thing that she arts and farts around with but has no real skill with.  It feels about as bad as realizing no one is paying any attention at all.  I’m trying to just do things that make me happy rather than because they fill the Void.  Just because they keep it easy.

Funny when you write it out, the obvious answer is fuck’em.   Fuck’em right in their stone-dead heads if they can’t let me play a shitty ukulele shittily or write out some stupid smut with errors, canonical and grammatical studded all over it.  My grandfather is turning 93 and I can’t imagine one fiber in his being gives one damn about people out there in the universe trying and failing at things.  He and I just want us to be happy.