mahiwaga

If I were as hysterical as I have been previously, today would’ve probably been a really bad day. I may very well be cursed. Let me count the ways:

1. I had to wake up at 5 a.m. Central Time, and since I had adjusted to Pacific Time, it felt like waking up at 3 a.m.
2. My commute is such that it takes me about an hour to drive 12 miles.
3. I haven’t been officially signed up for the rotation that I’m on. Apparently my paperwork has not yet come in.
4. I don’t have my next rotation lined up. My attempts to do so today were all rebuffed.
5. I lost my wallet, and therefore was unable to eat lunch.
6. Someone practically coded right in front of me, and I didn’t know what to do.
7. Despite this being an easy rotation, each day is still 9 hours long.

But, surprisingly, I feel OK about it. Mostly because I found my wallet, which was, mysteriously, sopping wet. And yes, I recognize that I am a whining bastard who does not properly appreciate how lucky I am.

But I am thankful. Despite all I’ve put myself through, things are OK. Not great, but not horrible. Just OK. What more could I possibly demand?

(Cue the violins. I am so fucking melodramatic, I need to be kicked in the head, but good.)

I don’t know why I persist in holding onto impossible fantasies. I mean, yeah, just in general, I’m not one for letting go very easily. I am an inveterate packrat. I still have papers from high school. Some of the stuff I hang on to dates all the way back to 6th grade. So, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary (which, I keep thinking to myself, I may very well be misinterpreting, right? Right…) I insist on pretending.

If I am honest with myself, then there is no hope.

These days, no hope doesn’t seem so bad, though. The Art of Not Wanting. Everything falls apart in the end. All the things that has-beens and might-have-beens tell themselves so that they can sleep at night and not wake up hating themselves.

I don’t even know how to try.

I just have to be deadly serious this time. About the Art of Not Wanting. About taking things as they come, and rolling with it. Even in the interstitial moments when I think my heart is breaking, there is time and space to laugh, to take it all in, to enjoy the fact that I am alive, no matter how painful it seems at the time.

This is life. I suppose I can either take it or leave it, but thems is the breaks. Apparently, I’m the only one who can save me. And I’m having the damndest time doing it.