(well, misanthropic, actually.)
The misanthropy is strong in me today. I woke up with a hate-on for the world. Nothing I've done today has allowed the dread and aversion to lift. So I've been dipping into the darker section of my CD collection. (Do I care that being sad and seeking out Peter Murphy's "Cuts You Up" is a cliché? Nope.) I've taken to surfing pages of people who used to be friends years and years ago, and wallowing in schadenfreude whenever I can find it. (I know, I'm proud of myself too.) Needless to say, my diet has gone completely out the fuckin window.
In related news, I've decided that my desire for a second baby is stupid, and based on the following reasons:
- I have no friends and I'm lonely
- I'm often baffled by Blake's behaviour and yearn for an earlier stage at which I understood him and could predict things
- I'm afraid that my new job will despise me as much as my old did, so I want to take a vacation before they figure me out
- I'm tired of the continual demands of teaching, not to mention the baffling social structure that I have yet to fully understand
- I'm tired of the do-nothing, take-no-responsibility chuckleheads who fill my classes
- I'm competitive, and resent that just about every person I knew with one kid when Blake was born has moved on to a second
- I miss my midwife
- If I get pregnant, I might be able to keep up the "happy marriage" facade
- Smaller knitting projects means more completed knitting projects
See? Don't feel bad. I also hate myself.
(As I'm writing this self-pitying entry, Blake has been amusing himself with the huge plastic Swiss Army Knife I got as a camp counsellor. Now he's moved on to playing with an elephant while wearing his father's sombrero. How am I supposed to keep up the hate under these conditions?)
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*