Okay. I am now officially sick of the Cubs. I live in hope that Friday, when the trains will be full of drunk-ass Cubs fans riding to the playoffs, that I will be off work for my closing.
...which would be more of a miracle, come to think, than the Cubs winning the playoffs in the first place.
I don't ever remember being as lethargic or as gloomy as I was today; I just couldn't find a damn thing to make me happy, to distract me from this simmering anger inside me. It's like 1994 all over again--September imprisoned in this house again, held to a standard of behavior devised by someone else, my actions restricted. It's not as bad as it was then, of course; but something in me says it shouldn't be AT ALL. And of course, my patience is non-existent; not only shouldn't this situation exist, but even if it DOES exist, I shouldn't be IN it. I should already BE in the house; I should already have moved, should be unpacking, should be settling in. I'm so tired of being in this room, this bed; living out of a laundry basket and a suitcase....a suitcase packed for SUMMER, with late-AUGUST temps in mind instead of late-September.
I'm half-tempted to pull out of this deal, but I don't know if that's just cold feet because of all the opposition I've been encountering. I wish people would shut up, really...but THAT, I suspect, is just more of this pissed-off malaise.
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