I Shit My Pants: And other tales of woe.

Hola Viewers.

Well, it's been a long time since my last post, my "welcome new year" post that contained a glimmer of hope that some years of crap are enigmas and followed by some years of a bit of crap, but not as much crap as the one before. I'm tempted just to sign off at that.

It's August! We have had our 3.5 weeks of summer weather and now begin the long journey to miserable West Coast weather. Mild, but bad mild. Not like "mild salsa" mild. I say that, because I enjoy mild salsa. Forgive me for appearing negative. I am.

Now, obvi, there have been many highlights to this year so far. I am still in my relationship, I was lucky enough to have a wonderful two week holiday, our dog is still well (knock on wood) and I have a roof over my head and food in my belly. My friend and I have been joking about "first world problems". In other words, if you have food, shelter, and love, any other problem is a first world problem. To a degree, this is a good outlook. For example... my bacon is too hot. I finished my book and can't decide on the next one. I have to go back up to my vacation cabin for another cocktail because I just finished my last one. Definite First World Problems (FWP's). But then there's that in-between shit. The shit that indeed happens alongside privilege, but feels like everything but.

It is becoming increasingly clear that my Smoking in my Pyjamas persona is long but gone. She is here, and consistently unwell. She drinks too much, smokes too much, has anxiety attacks, pops pills, and can't seem to maintain full time employment. But daggammit, that doesn't stop her from trying. I have managed to juggle three part-time/auxiliary/temporary jobs in the past little while. I won't go into detail, but I have been maintaining my ability to work in my designated field. It's just underpaid and not giving me enough hours to live in the lifestyle within I feel accustomed. You know, with food and shit. I jest - my partner is amazing about working consistently and filling in the financial gaps. But my yearning for the ability to work full time and consistently myself... it's not so much about the money. It's a bit more about pride. Oh wait, isn't that one of those seventh deadly thingies?

Okay, plug your ears and close your eyes, because it's been a long time since I've written so I'm going to produce a litany of shameful woe-is-me complaints. See you in the next paragraph. I'm stressed. I have terrible sexual dreams about parental figures. I don't know what job I'm going to have next week, and if it's the one I've applied for, there is a good chance I will fail in attempt to work the full time hours. My partner's family member is incredibly ill. I gained twenty-five pounds but shouldn't be bitching because I still maintain a "healthy" weight. I snapped my achilles in two (clinical term: rupture. My term: FUCK me up the fucking ASS this hurts) doing the only physical activity I have loved to do for the past 25 years. I'll never do that activity again. Physio is expensive. I have anxiety attacks every day, yet for some reason I am trying to lower my SSRI doseage, because apparently I have something to prove. My mother is still dead. I never talk to my sister any more, and she used to be my |person". You know, that person. Oh, and I shit my pants.

What's that? Yes, I shit my pants. Turns out that my guts like to do this new thing now, where when I get really nervous I on a few occasions haven't been able to make it to the (PUBLIC) bathroom in time.

My name is *****, and I shit my pants. Twice.

You haven't heard the last of me....

xo-PS