Like A Fat Kid At A Buffet
The things I can control I need to start dealing with. I'm excellent at hiding in a hole (or my room or the kitchen, eating my feelings out of a Cool Whip container) and ignoring them, pretending everything is fine when it is so obviously not.
Much less so when I run out of said Cool Whip.
Anyway. In hanging out with Shara yesterday I bought new bras. I probably shouldn't have given that I have no income, but man were my old ones...old. And busted. My boobs were quite excited to have new harnesses to rest in. And they're pretty.
While we were bonding over cupcakes (or at least I ate the cupcake. I was hungry and the ensuing sugar headache was intense, but worth it), I sort of outlined the fact that my plate is overflowing with shit. It's like a fat kid at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Some of these things I can take off the plate and it'll make it easier to carry.
Some of the things are just going to have to stay on the plate.
It's this logic that has led me to my local Starbucks, sitting at a table that is too small for me because everyone is hogging the bigger tables that I would like to sprawl out at. I've obvs got the laptop here and the plan is to work on this paper that has been plaguing me since...
I think leaving the house is a step forward in working because now I'm not home to babysit my mother, who ends up taking an extraordinary amount of my time. I don't know if I'll be home for dinner and even though it means I'll be doing lame-o work all evening, it's kind of liberating. There is a Panera right near by so I can grab dinner and work there if I need to keep this party going, because this is a BIG FUCKING THING I have got to get off my plate.
The BF would be very proud of me. I know he doesn't bring it up often, but I know he disapproves of how I babysit. I'm trying to break the habit, one Shaken Peach Green Iced Tea at a time.