Nominative Determinism Quicksilver


I am in the interim.  Sister is still asleep.  I am up because I thought there was a breakfast meeting my boss was coming to pick me up to go to, but the roads are so terrible that she’s just going on her own and suggesting that we, on our own recognizance, decide about coming in.  I have some things that need paid today – not to mention the fact that payday is tomorrow and there may be more snow coming and I don’t think I can get access to all the pieces of information I need to pay them without physically going into the office, but at the very least, it seems we have some breathing room between trying to get there at nine and sweat and worry about it.  Because even if we left right now, it sounds like getting there is going to take some time.

But until we get this decided, I will be a bit knotted and anxious because it is morning and a work day and despite the fact that schools all over are having a snow day and things are closed everywhere, I have this internal dialogue that imagines I should find some kind of dog sled and Iditarod my way in.  That’s what a good worker would do.  When my car, the one with 4WD, only has one wiper and the sister’s tires on her car are dicey, I still feel this guilt about sitting here in bed with my socks on and a blanket and a cat blinking at me, considering if I could put on Dragon Age: Inquisition.  Or how much cleaning I could get done if this turns out to be a snow day.  I would much rather be told: yes, you must or no, we’re all not. This up to you stuff, you always wonder if it’s being tallied somewhere, even if just subconsciously.

So yeah, I got an email.  Another epic, knotty, (knotty, not naughty) email and I should have waited to reply.  I would have been more considered.  Less vulnerable, I guess.  I just responded really empathetically and wanted him to know that. That I cared, I guess, about his troubles.  That I understood.  Which, I don’t know.  I said some awkward things .  I should have waited at least a day for polish, but it’s much too late now.

Fuck, I, just, yeah. I know you can’t help me. I keep thinking that someone could help me, but they can’t.  I know the advice that can be given.  I should meet him, get it all made up of real things, let it live or die on its own lungs, knowing I’ll have to kill it once it starts walking.  I just have to stand here, feeling shit, and arbitrarily responding to what I feel and ending up where I end up.  I’m starting to get too comfortable in this bed. I’ve set an alarm so I will get up and make some decisive decisions, but I keep hitting the snooze button.  It’s like a metaphor or something.

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