My Original Mission

Strongly resisting the urge to not move from my couch, and do nothing but eat carbs, drink, and chain smoke until 2016, which jesus, isn’t that far off. Also wavering between just shutting this site down because it’s unbecoming to me as an adult (I would like a new job at some point and maybe a relationship and search engines aren’t a secret, though more and more I realize no one cares that much what anyone else does, just me), just sticking to neutral subjects, or going full-on batshit and owning it. I can’t do the latter as much as I would like to share some very funny stories from the past seven days. I can still be mildly T.M.I., though, if vague. In my about this blog snippet when I spun off this nonsense from the food, I cited the ability to talk about U.T.I.s (mission accomplished) and I have one right now due to a minor but necessary weekend lapse in judgment. That’s enough information. I’m going to talk about my kitchen in a bit instead–it’s finally done and it looks pretty good! I’m proud (but still sitting on the couch lazily). 

Ok, one snapshot of a story because the kitchen revamp involved switching out a rug from my hallway and the new hallway rug plays a role. Indulge my so-so scene-painting skills, all tell, very little show. This is meant to be funny by the way, not a tragedy, and that I have to explicitly say that goes a long way in explaining why I need to sharpen my writing to be less explain-y. 

The lights are still on as I lie in bed trying to fall asleep at 2am because I said it was ok for a houseguest to work (which turned out to be less work and more sending look-at-my-crazy-ex emails to a lawyer and husband of a friend of the ex, the latter which resulted in a loud phone call misunderstanding at 3am, midnight local time) at the desk two-feet from the bottom of my bed instead of using the dining room table in the next room. Someone staying up all night working while I’m in bed is a very familiar, almost comforting situation. I’m not bothered. As I rolled over, turned my head to the left, and started closing my eyes, I see Sukey, a notorious floor-shitter who’d been using the litter box all week for no good reason and for the longest stretch in years, which I mistook as a positive omen, as if reading piles of shit like tea leaves, was hovering over my new wool hallway runner, rump positioning for a nice, juicy dump. I jumped up, screaming, and pushed her to the side. After congratulating myself on my great save, I laughed and started to joke about everyone in the apartment except me having bowel problems because the houseguest had just spent 45 minutes in my bathroom due to a medical condition that gave me less pause that it should’ve originally and I’d already started growing accustomed to. I was cut off curtly. “Krista, please! I’m trying to send an email!” Apologies and quick kisses followed shortly. Mondays. Tuesday afternoon I said I was being emotionally abused, half-jokingly, but only just half. Tuesday night I told this houseguest that we would probably never see each other again. Wednesday I texted that I hoped we saw each other again. Sunday that was reciprocated. Today, this Wednesday I don’t think there’s much sense in any of this, have some new ideas, and don’t really care as much one way or the other.

And that’s 2015.

Who wants to give me a new job and go on a date?


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