I’m a freak, I’m a loser…

I am my own worst enemy. Nobody could ever hate me or sabotage me or simply just screw up my life and make things difficult the way I do.

Today I have a job interview, a big meeting, a walk and a hair appointment and I’ve left my bloody phone at home. Twas to be expected I suppose, with a last minute bag change, chronic insomnia (or disturbed sleep via angry possums) and me having a really bad concussion week: face still going numb, still with the dizzies, the nausea, the falling into things and dropping things. Which is probably what happened to the phone. I hope. It’s only an ancient Samsung, what could possibly go wrong with it nestled in the folds of my hastily thrown aside quilt?

Then there was trying to buy a boxcutter in Coles, queue sirens and questions. Why? Because I want to cut up boxes, that’s why. Himself spends all his money on Ebay then tosses the boxes behind the rotten front door to rot and I mean to have at them. Meant to get at them last night but I had a very long and difficult day at work and then the bus caught on fire, so, you know, late.

I am a stupid and selfish child. Who cares about nothing but what on TV. True, that, but in my defence, between my allergy to washing powder and washing a month’s worth of crap and pegging up a month’s worth of socks with my concussion, I was good for little else but sitting on the couch and letting what’s left of my brain dribble out of my now deaf ear. If I’ve got to go, I’m going out watching the Pine, and that’s that, as far as I’m concerned.

I care about things that aren’t important. This is true. But I have no control over the things that are important. None.

Ever since that new manager showed up, life has been an unendurable hell of long hours, no OT and snide comments. And now we’re having another restructure and I’ve got to apply for my own job. Again. Hence all the job hunting (and not getting).

I can’t do anything to help about my Aunt’s stroke because I can’t afford a plane ticket. It’s fallen all to my cousin, the eldest, to manage everything and I want to help, because I remember how fucking awful it was for me, with no help, or support or relief and work and managers and rellos being just officious, judgemental and making even more demands on me and having not one person willing to buy me some food or pick me up from the hospital on a cold, dark, wet night.

So I want to be there, but I can’t. And it must be hard, because she never had a warm relationship with her mum, and she had a kid out of wedlock and she was in the car crash that killed her father so she’s always been on the outer, which I suppose is why we’ve always shared long letters, since I was a kid. I love her to bits and I want to scream that I can’t help.

So I tried posting some tea and biscuits. It’s not much, but the folks I talked to said they’d much prefer Tim Tams to a hug, so I thought it’d do. The first time I tried I was told I wasn’t allowed post tea and biscuits to the UK, possibly under the Sending Coals To Newcastle Act. They said organic matter was verboten, which is a bit of a stretch, definition wise, for Tim tams, but there was no posting to be done that day.

The next day I tried again. This time I was in trouble because I didn’t know her phone number. I’ve never had it. It’s always been letters, and now Facebook. Growing up, phoning the UK cost a month’s wage, so it was just never done. Never even thought of. Even phoning my Aunt from a UK landline felt weird and wrong and she’d hang up almost instantly out of frugal habit.

So I had to look up the white pages and return for a third try. Well, they accepted the parcel at least, but I’ve no guarantee it’s ever going to get there. They don’t make it easy to try and be kind these days.

I judge other people when I’ve no right even existing. What would I know about other people? According to what I read yesterday I ought to, as my mother always said, be locked up and have the key thrown away. I am a mess. A fat, ugly, old, miserable, about to be unemployed, everyone hates me, useless, exhausted, broken down mess.

But hey. I’ve got that job interview (and I’m deaf in one ear and I haven’t slept in days). Just look at me in the mirror. Yeah, I want to punch myself in face, too. Loser. I deserve everything I get. It’s all my fault. I don’t try hard enough. I’ve been a waste of space since the day I was born. A nuisance to all. I should just shut the fuck up right now.

PS. Richard 3 tomorrow. Pissed off and bitter freaks UNITE!

More stuff I found interesting: https://plus.google.com/u/0/113197665355692280218