It's my blog and I'll cry if I want to
There's that stern voice in my head telling me, "Curiosa, you need to grow the fuck up. It's high time you took some responsibility for your own life." You know, the little angel on my shoulder. Unfortunately, it seems that these days, I've been listening to the its devilish counterpart a little bit too often. I keep telling myself, I'm not lazy, I'm trying to figure out what I want to do with my life. Sort of like I also keep saying, I'm not messy, It's just an extension of my creativity. A fucking quarter-life crisis is what it's called.
If I had a magic latern, I would rub it and spend my first wish on becoming a bear so I could hibernate for the rest of the month. Although that would likely, in the long-run, compound my problems. Sticking one's head in the sand doesn't make problems go away, it just gives you a false sense of complacency. My new apartment, while fantastically located and reasonably priced, has resulted in double rent this month. I'm counting on finding some poor student lacking in accommedation to help pick up some of the financial slack come the 15th of the month, since I have to give two months notice before I am no longer legally responsible for this little shithole (it's not REALLY a shithole, it's just 16 sq m and badly in want of a thorough cleaning). So Mom (whom I love very, very much, and who DOESN'T, by the way, read this blog) had to wire me some emergency cash so I could pay rent to the Swedish-wild-child-party-girl-turned-kärleksinvandrare-till-Norrland who is on her way to Brazil for a few weeks of fun in the sun. (Did I mention I hate her right now? Ahhhh, the sweet, sweet feeling of jealousy...)
I wish someone would pay me to be a professional blogger. My current employment is over at the end of the year, and I have a job interview on Friday. If that doesn't work out, I may end up unemployed somewhere in the middle of the Continental United States within a few months, as I already owe my mother almost as much money as I do to Uncle Sam for four-years of student loans. Keep your fingers crossed, or "hold your thumbs," or whatever it is that you do in this country.
My only consolation is that the Swedish-wild-child-party-girl-turned-kärleksinvandrare-till-Norrland has elected me to be "katvakt," that is, cat sitter, during her stint in Brazil. So, Kitty and I can curl up on the couch and count coins together, stare at the wall, contemplate our navels, and if worse comes to worse, share that can of tuna.