idiot

Instead of immersing myself in Oh The Tragic fanfic story, I actually sat around and brooded instead, which is retarded. I managed to fall asleep, but it is now six hours later, I'm awake, and I've utterly convinced myself of a number of things.
( for example )

So the moral of the story is that I am retarded and need to spend a great deal less time in the world of the sane and conscious, because it's simply not worthwhile. Either that, or I need to become more competent at dealing with the aforementioned world, or something.

It doesn't help that I'm in the Club today (even though there are now FOUR people junior to me). The Club isn't busy enough to distract me. I've come out of deep funks before by going to work and being busy and getting distracted by the fact that I'm actually, miraculously, good at what I do there. But the Club? Eight hours of sitting and brooding, my friends. Not going to do me any good.

FEH. I say fie unto all of it, and have determined to go out for a walk or something now because I am utterly unable to be constructive here. I would go and do dishes, but my hands are in the midst of an exceedingly painful blisters-and-all kinda weeping sores kinda eczema outbreak, so sorry, it ain't happening. I hate myself kind of a lot at the moment, but not quite that much.

constructive self-loathing

Man, I hate jogging. I hate jogging more than anything. It's awesome. I can go do it and hate it so much that there's no room to hate anything else. So that improved my morning.

But now I'm ravenously hungry, so there's that. Hm.

Alexander tried to eat this morning. He's very skinny, his scales are hardly poking out at all, and he's acting normal. I stuck my finger in the bowl and he flared at it, and then went on to mouth some of the odd bits of food floating around the surface. So I quick threw the pellets he likes in there, and he mouthed and spit it out. I threw some easier-to-chew food in there, and he mouthed that and spit it out. He lost interest, but only after chewing on the pellet several times. So he actually attempted to eat, which is more than he's done in a week. I'm hopeful.
I shoved his bowl up against the big tank and he actually had a flaring match with Gibson, which is more like his old self.

I dunno-- might he survive? I'd be psyched.

Yow ow ow.

Was grinning, then yawned, and my jaw just did something exceedingly painful. Ow. It won't go back, either. Ow. Come on! So stupid. WTF. Ow.
(I hadn't intended for it to become the subject of the post, but it did this as I was clicking on the icon for my lj-update client. So it's kind of right there in my consciousness at the moment, this big sort of hot ball of pain in the left hinge joint of my jaw. $*(#@(*!!!)

I was grinning because so many people on lj are just so nice to my whiny self, and it gratifies me and makes me feel like so much less of a loser. :) I will respond to comments as soon as I can get my shit together. Which may be a while, as I have 14 hours I gotta work over the next 2 days and honest work makes me oh so weary.

Am home alone at the moment: Dave has gone out to hang out with his buddy Sean who is rarely in town, and I decided he'd have more fun without me and I'd have more fun at home. So I'm futzing on LJ and that's more fun.

At work I spent a very long time writing a letter to Katy (I am so good) and thus really didn't get much done. Despite having only three customers, I spent a long time talking to each of them, so it means all the things I wanted to write didn't really get written. Oh well!

Dave's been very sullen and taciturn of late, but poking him about it will only arouse ire. I hope he can blow off some steam with his buddy Sean tonight.

The jog did more damage to my legs (muscle stiffness-wise) than the bike ride, and the jog can't have been more than a mile or two at most. (*googles it* Hm. .08 mi. each way. So, in other words, like no distance at all. Holy shit, I am slow; it took me like over ten minutes a mile and I didn't even stop to walk until the cool-down of the last block! Eh well. We can't all be Katy. [My sister the captain, for the information of the general public, is a former champion middle-distance runner and in her prime ran a 12-minute two miles, with the second mile being by far the faster. I don't know what she clocks now but it's enough to max an Army PT test every time.]) I feel silly, but my hips hurt and I'm gimping around. Still, it's not like in college when I had my mysterious and crippling hip malady: this isn't a bad hurt, it's just a pain in ass hurt, and I am constantly reminded: no matter how bad things are, at least I'm not jogging right now!
It's a good philosophy. It's like the old Russian proverb (actually it's probably a knock-knock joke poorly translated; I read it in some long-forgotten mystery novel or somesuch), about the guy who keeps hitting his head against the wall, "because it feels so good when I stop!"

Al's being his cute self, with his little fishy snoot and his wavy fins and his sharp eyes watching me and hating me so so very much, but I still don't think he's eaten anything, and so I remain concerned. Little fooshie... OF DOOM.

Whoo. OK. I think I ought to go to bed lest I write any more banal and inexplicable things. Whee. Off I go. To torture Elves in my sleep. (I really am a bad person, at least when it comes to torturing fictitious creatures. Ugh I am merciless. I can't stop! It's too gratifying.)