My boss wants me to maintain my purgatory here in Indy every week, preferably 3-4 days a week. I tried to get him to compromise at 2, but it turns out our client just canned the person who does the equivalent of my job for them, and now I need to help out until everybody’s happy.
Thing is – I hate it here. Really hate it. I have no car, and there isn’t anywhere to go anyway. I walked to a little Mexican place for dinner, and picked up some things at the grocery store on the way back. It’s a nice walk to get the blood flowing, but there are no sidewalks, so I have to walk in the street.
I suppose the good news is: all there is to do here is write and read. And swim in the pool.
I was just starting to get over all of my stress, so adding this to the mix really wasn’t a great idea. I stepped onto the puddle jumper plane and had to fight down the urge to scramble back off the plane and run screaming through the terminal. Stress exacerbates my claustrophobia, but even knowing that, I startle myself when I feel it.
I’ve been crying a lot more over odd little things, too. I kept tearing up while watchingt V for Vendetta, of all things.
I’m exhausted.
“All happiness depends on courage and work,” Balzac once said. “I have had many periods of wretchedness, but with energy and above all with illusions, I pulled through them all.”
Until he died at 50. I’d like to keep trucking a little longer than that.
