starkillers

Things in the trunk of my car:

Half a Japanese newspaper
My jacket, boy's jacket
8 quarts of Kendall 10W-30
Flashlight
Digital TV converter JL gave me two months ago
Plastic lid to Pyrex baking dish
Jumper cables
Blanket
Small bag of glitter
LL Bean Snow Tracker boots
Old steering wheel cover (pink)
Deflated tiger floatie

I hate when I sharpen my eyeliner, drop shavings on the floor without noticing, tread on them in bare feet, track dark purple eyeliner smudge all over the light beige carpeting from my bathroom to the kitchen, spend half an hour with Resolve Large Area Cleaning Granules and a toothbrush removing said smudge, then decide to tackle the spots on the stairs while I'm at it, realize the circular motion with the toothbrush will lift ground-in cat hairs that the $900 space vacuum leaves behind, and then spend 1.5 hours on a Friday night cleaning the carpet on my stairs with a toothbrush. I hate that.

People need to stop telling me I need a new car. It's not like she's held together with duct tape (except the fuse door, and you can't see that unless you put your head on the passenger floor) or anything; she doesn't look ghetto. She's got that ding in the front quarter panel, but it's subtle. Maybe they think their cars will catch old car cooties from her. I do not understand people who want a new car every three years, because that is a colossal waste of money. My insurance is $425. A year.

I am suffering severe recession guilt. Not only did I not lose my job, I found a better one that paid more and have had two raises in fifteen months. I put 20% down on my house and have no debt aside from the mortgage. I still have six months' living expenses in savings. I guess my guilt is more FEAR as in, when am I going to get mine? I still like my job. I am safely ensconced in 940 acres of park; that offers countless places to hide if necessary. The only better job I could have would involve fingerpaints and maybe a chemistry set and some Legos. I'm no longer suitable for private sector employment.

My sister tells stories about me to the people she works with, and I think they are all convinced I am ten years old and/or autistic and possibly in a group home. Not that there is anything wrong with that.