Chicken Trenta


Oh, blog, oh, blog, oh, blog.   I am grateful for you tonight.  First, we speak of the world, which is scary and awful when we try to swallow the whole of its suffering in one choked-down gasp.  What am I supposed to do? is the phrase that comes to mind and the only answer I have is…just don’t make it worse.

And then, I speak of the storms inside the teapot.

While I was quietly telling old ladies their tiny, bony bodies are not too fat for the top they want to buy, my own world was flipping and flopping around.

The good news…god, that is a fucked-up way of saying it, but the good enough news is my mom has to start chemo on Friday providing insurance covers it.  It’s only good in that they were lucky to find the cancer at all, lucky to find it before she even felt symptoms, and its of a sort (I need to get the exact name, though I don’t exactly want it as if I know its name, I am allowing it a place or a voice here) that has a high survival rate, even if the fact that it’s a second time, apparently makes it harder.  Harder, easier, it’s all just words.  It’s all just shit no matter which hand it’s piling up in.

So I’ve grasped that by a pinky, by a fingernail, by a hair’s breadth and that’s rattling around in my head and in this head is also the fact that I have advanced at least to the next stage in this job application.  I have to offer up basic details about how I know how to use Word, Excel, and how to be in an office.  I think I can do that.  It makes you think for an instant that you’re in the running, but I think there’s probably at least 50 or 100 other people who bothered to apply.  There’s no reason to even worry about driving there, there’s no reason to even think about the trauma of quitting.

That said, now, two out of our office of six have quit/resigned.  One of which I learned about tonight via Facebook.  So that’s another stressful goddamned piece of news.  While I have been slowly trying to get my act together to leave, everyone else is whooshing out the door.  It can’t be good for anyone and not for my martyr complex that feels like someone’s just looking for the hammer to nail me to the office door.

And I am only 99% sure I locked the inner door at the shop.  I did.  I must have.

A headache, an sense of tiredness that I’m only beginning to register, and a wave of just wanting to be looked after is rolling over me.  I just want yesterday’s Okay, false as it is, to play one more song.  I just want to close the door and hear silence.  That’s dramatic.  I just want the earth to stop shaking so I can stand up straight.

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