kipple's last stand
I paid for yesterday's storm day of leisure with the worst case of cabin fever I've ever experienced. As soon as I got home from church, I was certain that if I didn't get out of the house again that I might die. I was vibrating so fast that I could barely think straight. Unfortunately, all of my regulars were busy or we have a date so soon in the future that me rushing over right now would be pretty silly. Even Dirk, my soi-dit lazy friend, was very resistant to inviting me up to his parents' place. (I think I'll have to stop being a brat for the next little while, because Dirk's current incarnation just isn't finding my shit funny. Unsettling.)
So I called Preacher, and found him at the airport with the family, on their way to Palm Beach. Good thing I hadn't gone through with my plan to just drive to his house, Dirk or no, which was my original plan two months ago.
We've been talking today about the small still voice of God, and I figured that if it was this hard to find something to do, then I must need to do something here to make myself settled. I sat in the study, thinking, and I suddenly noticed something: of all the rooms in the house, the only place still haunted by the Boy is this room. Every other room, from the living room to the basement to the bedroom has been reorganized, altered, shifted so that the holes are no longer obvious and wounding. This is the only room that still has piles of his shit on the shelves, in the closet, under the desk.
Today I purged.
It's all sitting in piles by the door, and the Boy has promised to pick it up tomorrow. He didn't sound to pleased with my "pick it up or I'm throwing it out tonight" message, but I don't actually care. As I was packing it up for him into nice, convenient crates from my dad's company, I had second thoughts. What if I blow it because I won't be nice to him now? And then I realized that it didn't matter. This week I asked him twice if he would reconcile, once with a joking tone in the driveway of Casa Nova and then privately in my doorway. Both times he was more than happy to refuse. If he's going to point to this latest ultimatum as proof positive that I'm unreasonable, well. Actually being nice never goes to my credit, so why not play the bitch?
At least I'm not borrowing a trebuchet from Team Sundridge to fling flaming JUMP workbooks at his apartment windows, which was my first plan last month.
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*