Because I just rolled into my clothes this morning without bothering to listen to the radio for updates on this stupid storm, and because I do not have a connection to the interwebs at home, here I am at the office, alone. I did not get the memo that classes were suspended until I was already at the gate, thinking, “Well fuck, what difference does it make when your job involves the work of 5 people?”
Which I guess is a good thing. There are things you need that can only be found at the office–things that I only want to find at the office because I hate taking work home. I shouldn’t have to.
For the first time, I have a phone that can access my mail, and while that has its conveniences (“I CAN WORK WHILE ON THE BUS! WE’RE MOVING! WHEEEEOOOOOOWWWWW!!!”), I hate it. I’ve been wanting to avoid having the internet in my pocket. I’ve been wanting space where my professional problems can’t find me.
So yes, internet connection, hello, hi. Office email, we meet again.
Which I guess is a good thing, again. Good as in good fortune. Because what came in the mail today was the last of the results of the series of applications I sent out earlier this year, in order to pressure me to finish my thesis. And it was approved! Berlin in October, then RyanAir my shit to Barcelona, then come home and hopefully–HOPEFULLY–have enough to finish my degree and be a Master of something so I can haul ass out of this shitty payscale.
Such is life. Such is work. And yesterday, all I could think about was whether I still really wanted this. What if what I really want, and have been too scared to admit all this time, is to save up for a house in the province where I can have enough space. I want to adopt a pitbull. I want to write and take pictures and make books, and those things are happening now to an extent. “An extent” can only mean so much.
One of my best friends is getting married. One of my best friends is having a kid. Everyone else is as good as engaged to someone and I am jealous. I really am. My cats can’t visit me at the hospital if I get sick–and I get sick a lot, precisely because I’m allergic to my cats. My cats aren’t going to make sure I have a happy birthday. My cats won’t even know it’s my birthday!
Last night I was thinking I really want a pitbull and time to make myself good food that comes out of an oven. I want space to feed people I love the food that I will be baking because dammit, I like making things that disappear within minutes and I like having butter on my hands.
I want an oven and a pitbull and time to write–not because I need to meet a deadline, but because I think about things, like these things. I think about these things all the time.
But fuck it. Can’t complain. Berlin in October should be lovely.