So much for me owning anything nice. Or new. Or cutting-edge. Whatever is in control of my existence is dead-set on keeping me living in a perpetual state of rebuilding. Or being reclusive. Or being drunk. Something like that.
First, everyone I know is trying to give me another cat. I don't need any more damn cats. I love them. And I would take them. IF I owned a house. And IF I wasn't a 30-year-old woman. Who also happens to still be single. One more cat would be the nail in the coffin of future love. Getting laid. What-have-you. One more cat means that I really am The Crazy Cat Lady. And if these people actually care about me, and want to see me stay social, and don't want me to smell funny, and want to see me find love and happiness and all that cheeseball shit, WHY THE HELL DO THEY WANT ME TO HAVE ANOTHER CAT?? Sabotage, I tell you. I do not need any more pussy, thanks.
Second, I saved up some cash so I could splurge on this completely unnecessary item I've been drooling over. A pink vintage wine decanter at Modern Star. I want to lick this thing all over, I like it so much. It's got a little matching glass stopper. And you can get a set of highball glasses made by the same crystal company that are all different colors. I saved from working tours, and had the exact right amount of cash in my wallet. Then Joe had to go and start having issues with his breathing. Since it was acute, and there wasn't any snot and he didn't act like he felt bad, I of course immediately think something awful since I know all that crap. I'm thinking "old cat. breathing issues. no other signs. congestive heart failure. or cancer. or hypertrophic cardiomyopathy". I'm thinking "dying". So I instead use that cash to take him to the vet, who says "most likely allergies". Which I should have also though about but instead I'm hardwired to think of the bad shit. Now I'm feeding him antihistamines. And while he's a little better, he's still not great. And I don't have a wine decanter to drink from in order to ease the stress.
Third, I was feeling better about the fact that Joe- yes, my baby; I adopted him when I was 17. I'm approaching 31. Nobody fucks with the Joe.- wasn't dying before my eyes of some unseen condition. And glad it only had so far cost 61 of those 100-decanter-dollars I had burning a hole in my wallet. So then I had to go and make sure to fuck that one up as well. I decided, "Oh, it's a nice night! I'll drink a beer on the porch!" and like an idiot I took the phone I just got a month ago out with me. I never do that. Because no one calls me anyway. It's just a let-down, you know? But for some reason I had some hope, and took it with. Kept it in my pocket. Then I get a text... "Who?? Someone wants to hang??". Nope. My dad. He just learned how to text. Ah, ok... then just after responding to his text, I feel this tickle on me. A damn spider has decided to build a web. On me. From one side of my upper body to the other. WTF, btw?? So, I set the phone on the side table. I brush the offending arachnid off, and bump said side table. And phone falls to the floor. First time it's been dropped. And the screen shatters. And I'm 5 days past my 30-day trial period. GODFUKINGDAMMIT. So I'm now SOL on an expensive-ass phone I don't really need but was super-happy with. I can't get it exchanged. And I can't afford to replace it. I can't change my plan for 6 months, and my old phone doesn't use mobile web so my current plan is useless. I can maybe get the screen replaced. For the same amount I paid for the phone. It still works. It's just leaving glass splinters in my fingers when I try to use it. They hurt.
Basically, I can't win. If I could get a break that lasts more than a month, I wouldn't know what to do with myself.
Shit. I need a vacation. From life.
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