I work in a cesspool of noise. I was recently informed that this cesspool of noise will soon grow exponentially because a new business is moving in next door – a business that installs audio systems into cars and makes a shit ton of noise. That’s just fucking super.
I already wear earplugs most of the day. I also wear them all night, otherwise I’m at the mercy of the late night/early morning stirrings of my upstairs neighbors – because of the hardwood floors with poor insulation combined with their incessant clomping and stomping, the clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clackclackclackclackclack-ing of their daily stampedes above my head.
Did I mention their only footwear consists of hard-soled shoes? I mean, who wears that shit first thing in the morning? My upstairs neighbors do. I guess they’ve never heard of cushy slippers. Either that, or these people are actually half-devils with cloven hooves for feet, sent to eternally disrupt my peace.
Did I also mention that I hate them for existing? This is awful, but understandable, since my degree of hatred is directly proportional to the amount of sleep deprivation their cloven hooves have recently inflicted upon me. Since sleep deprivation is a form of torture, I get a free pass for any resulting negativity.
Even this cat, who has started appearing outside my living room window, is all like: “Whoa. What’s with all the RACKET?!” And she’s hearing it from outside.
The fucked up part of all of this? I’m a quiet, peaceful person. I love stillness. Relish it. REQUIRE it, even. And like solitude, I never fucking get it. Here I remain, stuck in a noisy job that I hate, in a noisy apartment that I also hate (mostly because of the noise), which I can’t afford to leave because I haven’t figured out an escape route from my shitty, noisy job. And now it’s going to get worse?
Hey, universe…do you stage these events to torture me? Job well done. (That’s a partial Gilmore Girls quote, BTW.)
In a future entry I’ll explain how my floxing contributed to remaining in the purgatory of my shitty job, but for now I just want to slump over exhaustedly and whine a little in my new blog.
Speaking of…I’m really hoping this blog will amount to something more than a complaint repository. However, since complaints so often seem to fuel my desire to write…who the hell knows.
I feel compelled to point out that if I could just sleep like a normal person, perhaps my neighbors would not evoke my internal wrath. At least…not as often. But since I have a such a high startle reflex, and an overly-wired nervous system, I don’t sleep like a normal person. Every once in a while I’ll get restful sleep, but for the most part I’m chronically sleep-deprived. And yes, Cipro did this to me. My sleep has much improved since the first two years – I don’t get jolted awake by brain zaps while falling asleep anymore, thank god – but my sleep is far from wonderful.
But nevermind that for now…Let’s talk about the cat who comes to visit. She has shown up twice now, and both times I sat with her on the front stoop after her manipulative cries for attention and/or food won me over. She’s sweet, and has lime green eyes. I like her.
We have some things in common:
1. She’s a little jumpy, and she constantly trips over herself just walking a few feet.
2. She seems a little scatterbrained. Today she kept going back to the windowsill to sit, then acting surprised to see me calling her from the stoop. Like she was all, “Oh, I forgot you were still out here. I was going to meow at you from outside the window again.” So she’d jump down and come play with me for a while, tripping over herself on the way, then go right back to the windowsill to stare into my empty apartment…then notice me calling her again, stumble on over, and end up back on the windowsill after a few minutes of nuzzles and head rubs.
See? She’s awkward and she’s got memory problems and a short attention span. I think we’re soulmates.
I can’t adopt her, though. For one thing, she might already be someone’s pet. For another, I’m slightly allergic to cats, and my kid is moderately allergic. Also, I can’t afford a cat. If the thing gets sick and needs vet visits, I might have to put it to sleep, or give it away, or starve myself to pay for it.
Not to mention, how will I handle issues like fleas? Chemicals and I do not get along well. Even if we did, I cannot fathom squirting insecticides onto living creatures like I did with my former pets in my former, healthy life. Why? Because they might end up poisoned. You might think I’m being paranoid, but this happens sometimes. Just like people sometimes get poisoned from chemicals (and prescription drugs). I know what it’s like to feel poisoned day in and day out, with no relief in sight. I can’t potentially inflict that on an animal. Just thinking about it aggravates my PTSD.
Anyway, that leaves the option of researching natural ways to deal with fleas, which I can only assume have low to moderate success rates. Not to mention, I’m a little burned out from researching natural treatments for my own health issues, thank you very much. I can’t start doing that for an animal, too.
Wait…why am I even talking about this? My kid and I are allergic to cats, and therefore will not be acquiring a cat. Which is a god damned shame, because I love cats. My kid even says I’m a crazy cat lady without all the cats. That’s just sad.
You know what some people do when life deprives them of things? They start planning their afterlife, even if they aren’t completely sure it exists. I believe I started planning mine in the depths of my Cipro-induced misery. It will consist of a healing/decompression chamber to cleanse me of this chronic illness and trauma bullshit, and a GIGANTIC, luxurious bed…maybe the kind you can balance a glass of wine on without spilling it. There will also be an ocean, gardens (both flower and vegetable), fruit trees and bushes, endless sunshine, hammocks, people to massage me whenever I like, all the food and drink I was deprived of in life, vast libraries and schools, and endless art supplies. And now cats. I intend to read, write, create art, sleep (hey, its my afterlife – I can sleep it away if I want to), swim in the ocean, bask in the sun, eat and drink anything I want, get massages, tend to plants, and pet cats. It’s going to be awesome.
And if this afterlife doesn’t happen? So what. So I wasted some time daydreaming – big deal. It’s better than wasting time playing Scrabble on my phone, or being angry at another human, or scrolling compulsively through Facebook for hours…all of which I do on a regular basis. At least daydreaming about the afterlife involves thoughts of petting cats and eating cake and sleeping – precious, elusive sleep – creating a pleasant diversion from the seemingly endless suckitude of life. What could possibly be wrong with that?