Off For the Weekend

Got a call yesterday about an appointment that I've trying to schedule for the past three or four months, approximately. They have an opening Wednesday and since I've been waiting as long as I have I went ahead and made the appointment, which was stupid on my part because I hadn't gotten my schedule yet. Yesterday was Thursday, by the way, in case you weren't there for it. So with three days left in the work week I still didn't know when I might be free the very next week. This is how it works though. The schedule generally gets sent out on Thursdays, so by mid afternoon that day I usually know if I'm able to make plans for Saturday night cause I'll know if I'm off on Sunday or not. Or when I can make plans at all for the following week. But since I hadn't received my schedule yet, and since I had been off the past three Wednesdays (or more), I went ahead and set the appointment for Wednesday morning at 9:15.

Guess what showed up in my inbox at precisely 2:01 in the morning?

Next weeks work schedule.

Guess who works Wednesday morning?

Storm does.

So now I have to call and see how the long everything will take, so I can see if I can go to lunch an hour early (I work 5-2), and hope that I can make it downtown and back and that everything goes well within an hour. It has to be less than hour actually, cause I have to be back at work before the hour is up.

Of course I would attempt to make plans to better my life and the universe would shit on them. Because the universe secretly, and sometimes not at all secretly, hates all of us and will do everything it possibly can to destroy us. The universe is a mean bitch and it is not to be trusted.

Today's bold move will come with photos, but later in the day. (I'm very excited about it.) Now I have to pretend I'm packing clothes for a trip. By pretend I mean make a sincere effort, but end up just throwing whatever I think doesn't make me look like a chubby girl in a suitcase. We're going to my brother's today after Jeremy gets out of work and his wife is super thin and always has good skin and it makes me angry/sad to stand next to her. To be fair, she works out and eats well, so she's earned it. Meanwhile I eat whatever's in reach, or easiest to make, and maybe intentionally exercise about twice a week. Which explains my chubbiness and my bad skin. Who has acne at twenty-four? It's sad really.

You know that feeling when you look in the mirror and see all of your flaws and then you go out in public and you think that everyone else can see them too and is disgusted by them? That's me. Two-four-seven. Every time I come in contact with another person, I am always acutely aware of how I look. Frizzy hair, pudgey midsection, stupid little acne spots all up on my forehead, dark circles under my eyes and not from lack of sleep just the awesomness of having sinus problems, my bangs doing that stupid thing where they're kind of wavy/curly but still trying to straighten themselves out so it just looks like I slept on that section of hair alone even though I washed my hair that morning. So many little flaws that up close look like a lot of little flaws but far away... look like one big flaw. Being near pretty, fit girls always makes me hate myself a little bit more. Being near pretty, fit, and smart girls always makes me want to punch god in the throat. That fucker has got a lot of nerve. It isn't enough that they're pretty? They have to be smart too? Come on man, give some of us a break. You're leaving me with nothing but my sense of humor. Do you know how many people actually get my humor? Cause I do and that number is not high. Not high at all.

Now I don't think I'm absolutely hideous to behold or anything, I'm not like the Elephant Man where people would shrink away in horror, but sometimes I do get so down on myself that if people ever did I wouldn't hold it against them. I'd be like, yeah that makes sense. But this is why pretty girls should only be pretty. I'm very intelligent, I had to be cause I'm not exactly a beauty but that's okay because again, I'm very intelligent and since my humor doesn't really get through to people, I don't have much else to impress and astound the masses. So I need the hot chicks to tone down their intelligence. They're making it impossible for me to be seen and heard.

This is all coming from a week full of smacks in the face from reality. I had that moment where you look at a group of people and realize they've just been talking about you but you don't know if it was positive or negative and then you immediately look away and they start laughing and it's really hard not to think they're laughing at you. I seem to have gained weight but my scale doesn't show it, my clothes just make me look like a sausage. The best smack in the face though, and by the way this is the most sure-fire way to totally annihilate a girls confidence if you're in the market for that, was yesterday at work when the other short, blonde girl was referred to as the hot one. It wasn't a side by side comparison or anything, because I would've lost anyway, but I was nearby and someone was looking for the other girl (the hot one) and someone else said, she's the tiny hot blonde. To be fair though, I suppose I could be the chubby hot blonde but nobody says it because they'd still be calling me chubby. Sometimes I really hate all of existence.

Except Jeremy.

"Whenever I would say, 'kill all humans' I'd always think, 'except one.'" That's a little Futurama for you. Enjoy that.

My Morning So Far

In an attempt to keep out the autumn chill while still not turning our furnace on, I went around this morning and locked up all the windows, so as little air as possible can get in, without having to bring down the storm windows. Cause that is an annoying process. All of the windows are absolutely shitty in our apartment. There is no rope and pulley system in a single one of them, so opening and closing is a feat of physical strength.

In some cases, the library and kitchen, it is a display of clever cunning and agility. Most of them you can just push the top up and it doesn't completely drag the bottom up with it. Except for the ones in the bedroom and the library. Those ones you have to push up and down with the same amount of pressure at the exact same time. I do this by myself and I am always impressed with my own upper body strength, cause there isn't really a lot there.

The kitchen window is really fun cause I can only open and close it if there are no dishes in the sink. Which is to say, I have to stand in the kitchen sink in order to open or close the window. If a sudden chill comes in after a few warm days, I can often be found just toughing it out. I'll leave a sweater on the chair by the kitchen door in case I need to go in there for anything. As it's a kitchen, I often have to go in there for things.

The window in our bedroom that we actually open, (there are two, but one has never had a screen in it, ever) is one of the ones where you have to two do actions at once. So after I locked up all the other windows, minus the kitchen because I haven't done the dishes yet, I went into the bedroom. Since the library windows were fairly easy I should have known the streak wouldn't last. And I'll be damned if it didn't. Cause while I was pushing the top portion up, and holding the bottom portion down, a fun and exciting thing happened. (And not, on the way to the forum.)

What you are looking at, in case you haven't somehow already managed to piece it together, is the splintered remnants of my bedroom window. So when I was busy trying to keep the cold out, I must have gotten distracted, hulked out, and broke the fuck out of my window. AND, it was still cracked open near the top. So not only had I cracked the window, I hadn't even managed to close it. I had to tape it up, and that awesome patch job can be seen below, as well as IN MY GODDAMN BEDROOM.

Please note the super classy piece of cardboard, because I wasn't able to cobble the other shards of glass back into a discernible piece of window that could be taped together. We don't even drink Labatt. That box is from the time we bought two six packs of beer and the cashier at the state store was like, 'that handle looks like it's about to break off, here's a box for your booze, ya crazy drunks.' With a super judgey tone.

So now I get to call my landlord and be like, hey! Stop owning a shitty apartment! I get that our rent is fairly cheap, but for god's sake man, this is absurd. I always feel like I call him with problems all the time, but on the other hand, if he wouldn't do shitty quick fixes, we wouldn't have this problem.