growing in the goo

- some country song

Yesterday I got back from work, feeling sorta crappy. C-note came back from work, and I gruffly (none too graciously) agreed to helping her carry stuff in from her car, items like the ironing board that I will be using quite frequently.

I turned on the stove to heat it up, and smoke was pouring out within five minutes. I called my mom to see what I should do. I sat on the sofa. Scratched my arm. Talked for five minutes. Got off the phone, realized that there were little bugs, like dust mites, on my arm.

Freaked out. Looked with C-note for bugs, both on my person and in the apartment. Including my bed. Didn't find any more, but stripped my bed of sheets and began to look in bags for my random other sheet that I have lying around. Couldn't find it.

Went back to the kitchen. Smoke still flowing steadily, but at a less rapid pace. Took out the chicken, realized that I had bought the wrong kind, due to deceptive picture on front of bag. Cooked chicken, burned it.

But at least the bread for my sandwich was tasty. C-note and I ate our dinners under the neon palm tree and tossed around names for the guest list for our upcoming party. E came in, and we all chatted.

Made oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. (alright, to be fair, it was a mix. I wasn't much vested in this project.) Burned half the batch, accepted that our new oven runs hot.

Went back to my room, searched for a half hour for the sheet, finally found it, but it on my bed, went to sleep. Got up this morning, took a shower. Made my lunch, and stuck my thumb into the jar of mayonnaise by mistake.

Nothing too big, or tragic. In fact, all very small stupid things. I'm aware of that. But I'm just in this state of mind where I want to weep pitifully and crawl into someone's arms. Chalk it up to exhaustion. I'll be my resilient self after I get some more sleep.