I wonder should I go and live in a hut somewhere. With no wifi, no phone lines, no Parking Tag. I got to the car this morning to discover I’d been clamped. I’ve just had a nine minute conversation with Parking Ice Lady whose heart has obviously been clamped, so unmoved was she by my complaints. So ElsaDaughter had to get the bus to school in the rain, late, again and I gave to pay eighty euro to have my car released even though I had actually paid TWICE for the privilege of parking around the corner from my own house. I am furious. Irrationally furious. No supervisor was available to speak with me. The people who issue the clamps don’t deal with the public. For fear of their safety? No, they only deal with being money grabbing, morning ruining bastards.
So now I’m on the way to the doctor’s surgery to have my bloods done for full hormone tests. The sweats are worse than ever having abated for a week and my bed resembles a salt water spa pool each morning, without the relaxation. I’ve gone through three pairs of PJs the last two nights. My skin smells like an unshowered man’s after he’s had a lot of sex. You know that smell? Primal. I wake up freezing and unable to move because I know when I do I’ll be even colder.
So doctor’s, well the nurse, and make an appointment to see the doctor about work certs and sweats (edit: tomorrow at ten fifteen, someone remind me); wait for a supervisor from Callous Clampers; call about the new retro phone My Lady bought us yesterday that makes no ring; go into town to get my resident’s permit FINALLY sorted out. That parking permit is hanging over me like one of those looming rain soaked clouds chasing commuters around the roads this morning. But I can’t go into town until my car’s released. Oh, the irony.
The house is a mess. My head is a mess.
How do I cope with a day like this without reverting to hurting myself? How do I stay away from sharp objects, toothbrushes, old boyfriends, my bed?
I don’t want to let a day get the better of … bloods done… me.
I enjoyed the pain and dizziness of it. Maybe that’ll do me for a bit of self harm, even though I didn’t do it myself.
I called in to my local pharmacy and had a rant as I paid for conditioner and a fake tan mitt. I feel better now. It’s good to talk. Even if your local pharmacist wasn’t expecting to hear about the fumbling in a greasy till of a certain City Council. And I’ll have a tan. Just need to work up the energy to shower first to wash off the SaltScrub.
Maybe I’ll skip the island hut. I don’t think I’m quite ready for nine bean rows just yet.