Killer of Sorts

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I am such a medical marvel.  I feel much, much better overall, just of course, beyond a few instances when I thought my scalp was on fire, I was allergic to strawberries, my face was as red as Violet Beauregarde’s was blue, or that I was having some form of conniption.  Or the subtle ache in my legs. Beyond that, the neck and teeth felt 10 times better than I expected them to.  I feel a little bit closer to what I ought to be, typically.   Just…odd, like something’s radiating out of me and acting weird as it runs through my body.  Still.  Here we are.

Can’t get too hung up on that for now for reasons asserted earlier.

Tomorrow, I am a shop girl and we talk about the future.  My mentor has found another person for me to send my resume to – someone who is not a stranger to me, per se.  It used to be, many moons ago – perhaps I wrote about it here, I should check, that a very elderly man came by the center where I worked.  He was gregarious, chatty, self-amused.  One of those flirtatious old men who could be mildly flirtatious and it wouldn’t bother you because he was both so old and so kindly with it.  And he decided I had a nickname – he called me Happy.  Mostly, I imagine, because I put on the good show and welcomed him and chatted with him and didn’t ignore him as people might be wont to do with someone so willing to hang about and comment on life as it passed by.   Apparently I made enough of an impact that I got invited to his 95th birthday party.  I didn’t know anyone, but that’s never been the sort of restriction to stop me if I’m curious and willing otherwise to respond to an invitation.  There, I realized that his daughter and granddaughters knew who I was, too, and as they were likable and warm-hearted people, I didn’t mind this either.

He was a very nice man, who, sadly, if naturally, passed away a few years ago.  His daughter is the one who will be taking a look at my resume.  I will have to learn tomorrow what she even does.

I had a long conversation with a co-worker.  Her frustration is the same as ours and I can only say at this point what I feel.  I can’t continue this way.  So, I’m looking.  She, being another kind, good spirit (I am surrounded by them constantly), says good for you and I believe she means it.  We’re all worn down by this, caring, understanding the reasons, wishing it were otherwise…none of that shifts the reality that I want stability so that I can start pulling together the story of my writing life.

Also, I killed a spider in my shower.  I did it because of Mary Oliver, Nietzsche, and my earnest desire for cleanliness.  I didn’t want to do it, I tried to sic the cat after it, but in the end, it was me.

 

 

 

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