I feel a little better than I did. I can’t decide if that’s just being tired of being sad, like your arms getting fatigued when you hold something up for too long, or if I just needed time to sort of unconsciously sort myself out.
I think what really pissed me off about the dinner diss the other day was that there have been zero opportunities for me to hang out with people on a friendly basis without feeling like I am intruding. The dinner would have been a great chance to do that and, hell, even chat with some radfems. L put on this great show when she was insisting I sign up for We The Women of saying that it was a great way to meet radfems. Here was another chance to do that and I was denied it without even any prior consultation. And I have no idea why. If people are too busy during the normal course of the week and then people are shutting me out of social gatherings, what the fuck am I supposed to do?
Making friends at my age is really hard; making friends at my age with my mental limitations, whatever those are, might as well be on the fucking moon. I could try anyway, but another problem I have is the general political situation. It’s not like I know anyone around here enough to trust them to bring them around to visit. For all I know I could pull a secret troon who’s scouting for L and Neighbor so she knows which houses to burn down. It really is that serious. So any socializing I would do would have to be away from the house and probably also in a place that costs money, and even if I had money most of the time, and I don’t, I still wouldn’t feel comfortable doing it because you can’t fucking trust anybody. Even without the potential danger there’s potential High Amounts of Irritation if we have to introduce ourselves with fucking pronouns every time we get together (as in, if I started a Meetup for knitters or something, which has occurred to me).
I mean, I didn’t come here to be ignored. I don’t go anywhere where people are in order to be ignored. It isn’t about status, it’s about just having a normal life again. I wouldn’t care if these two people were complete nobodies; if we were in the same situation but they were blue-collar workers I’d still have certain expectations. Especially as I’m not getting paid for anything but the scutwork job. If this is about not making friends with “the help,” if you’re gonna make me “the help” and nothing else, I want a salary and Social Security taxes. If I’m not gonna get that, take the situation as friends (or at least mutually friendly people) doing nice things for one another and let’s fucking get on with it. One or the other. Shit or get off the pot.
But, hey. If this in-between bullshit is what it is instead, then this is what it is. Additional incentive to get my shit together, I guess: knowing that I’d be able to move somewhere that people actually wanted to have conversations with me. And not just when sorting the meat is boring.
I’m not sure if that place even fucking exists, but I suppose it’s worth a shot.
—
It’s nothing I have to rush unless L decides to kick me out. So far I’m hearing no definite signs that will happen. It occurs to me it would be the epitome of foolishness to throw away this opportunity to get my shit sorted. I don’t believe I am going to have another chance like this unless I cohabit with a man again and that man has a job. The chances of that happening are probably even lower than me getting fucked by Rory McCann. (Which, be fair. I would happily throw away any prospect of future marriage or long-term cohabitation if I could take that man for a tumble. It’s just not going to fucking happen.) So I’ve got to sort it. This is not a bad thing. It will just be a difficult thing. But it’s my own fault. Had I had my shit sorted 30 years ago, hell, I wouldn’t have even married Mike. Might be I’d have found a better guy to marry and actually have an intact family by now. Missed my chance on that. Should not miss the chance for an at least passable retirement. That would just be ridiculous and tragic.
So I still need to play dumb and lay low and also, I need to buckle down. I’ve been lapsing back onto Facebook and there’s really no call for it. They have my fucking contact info if someone really wants to chat with me. If they don’t, I guess I know where I stand. I’ll have a list of names I don’t kick off my friends list when I finally stick my head above the fray for a breather. They’ll be all my recent Messenger conversations. Convenient, that.
(Okay, I’ll make some exceptions. Not many, though.)
I’m just scared, y’know? The other problem with people being inconsiderate flakes is you literally can’t trust anything from them. I can try to make a contingency plan, but it could all go south tomorrow. Thank fuck Doug is just up the road, but even that’s no guarantee of anything; he is also a fucking flake. So… I dunno. Keep putting one foot in front of the other, I guess, and slogging it out and hoping it’s enough.
—
Weight’s down three more pounds. Don’t know if that’s a real drop or just a fucking fluctuation. I’ll try to keep a closer eye on it and we’ll see.
Should test my sugar more often, but I know what it feels like to have it high. I’m pretty much okay from what I can tell. I suppose I could at least do a daily fasting until the strips all run out. I’ve about given up on that high-tech meter. I honestly think it’s too high in error. The control liquid does not prevent that; its “accuracy range” is just too damn wide.
Another metric: I’m noticing deflation in my second chin. I hate to think this means wattles but unfortunately, I think it means wattles. I’ll get that sorted or I won’t — there is nothing wrong with aging, but I’ve looked like shit for years. I want AT LEAST five years where I do not look like shit. Same goes for my body. I’m feeling the deflation there, and there’s going to be loose skin. At MINIMUM it will be where the stretch marks are, and I’ve got plenty. That shit’s got to go. I want five fucking years. I will figure the fuck out how to pay for it.
But first, the actual weight loss. That seems the most pressing thing at present.
Working on it.
—
Well, I guess tonight’s going to be sort of on time? (Meat sorting night.) But it occurs to me I had better get some sort of hands-off lighting for when the days get shorter.
I wonder if I’m going to get questioned about the weekend. If Mac’s there, possibly not. I hope Neighbor’s not expecting some sort of confessional because it’s not happening. I don’t ask him a billion questions about himself. I only really need to ask one right now, and I haven’t even done that. And I won’t. Let me be an old misery and leave me alone, dude… you’ve got what you want, except for your central political cause, but that’s not all up to you anyway.
Oh well. Would you believe it’s taken me all fucking afternoon to write this? Well, it has. So there.