opera142 | A week of sulking

It has not been above freezing here since December, and I'm sick of it. I am sick of days in which the highs are below zero. I'm sick of it getting dark at 4:30.

Work is a warzone. The in-fighting is nasty, and being waged for the pettiest of reasons. People suck. Today, I kept my head buried in a thousand-million tax forms, didn't speak to hardly anyone, and waitedwaitedwaited for the lottery fairy to drop some freedom on my head. Forget riches, I just want enough to buy a hidey-hole far away from everything. Me, Moe, Miss Miller and NO ONE ELSE EVER NO ONE BUGGING US. Peace and quiet, and the luxury to waste my days fucking around. That's all I want.

Moe and I had Chinese the other day, and I didn't get a fortune with my cookie. I got a threat. YOU THINK IT'S A SECRET BUT IT'S NOT.

I'm in a God-dammit-why-do-I-bother mood about everything. Writing, friends, hobbies, work, humanity. I'm working myself into a very pleasant, selfish snit. Only my interests matter; I'm sick of listening to yours.

A week of sulking

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