At Least Mail Me Some Avocados, Peeps!

You ever have one of those weeks where you just feel like you're spiraling out of control on the crazy train (assuming trains can actually SPIRAL, which seems kind of difficult to me since they're usually long and not that flexible)?

This is one of those weeks.

I've had an added workload dumped on me at work, and I feel like I'm in this corporate state of hyper-consciousness (almost like meditation, but a bad evil kind) where I feel almost limnal and robotic and as though I am getting my shit done and in a trance-state or something. And it's motherf-ing lame. *Talking like a corporate robot--beep boop beep boop*

I also just bought a new car this week. And by "new car" I mean "a used car that isn't about to implode on itself." I hate hate hate cars. But unfortunately they are a necessary evil (leaning WAY more heavily towards the evil part of that description) when you live in a city without decent public transportation. And I despise focusing so much energy on something so materialistic, but when you've spent the last five years driving a car that you've been CONVINCED will be the cause of your death, it is impossible not to find yourself focusing on cars way more than you'd like.

My other car has been *the* biggest lemon I've ever come across, and it's been a source of stress for WAY too long now. You know it's bad when you spend the hour prior to having to drive somewhere all nervous and tense that your car won't make it and then spend your actual driving time praying under your breath that you won't die a horrible flamey death (which is even MORE ridiculous since you're an atheist)...

So, after the struts and gas gauge recently went on my heap of shit (the former causing my steering to slowly stop working on my way home on the freeway late one night), I bought a cute little yellow VW beetle for just the right price from a nice family nearby.



I've named her Butter (at least for the time being), and I can't decide if this is a GOOD name for the car of a vegan or the absolute wrong choice. But c'est la vie.

Unfortunately, the added stress of the moment is that one of the front tires makes loud cracky noises when I hit bumps. And given my track record (my tie rod went out on my other car WHILE I was on the freeway--you can read about all my joyous Purple Murple experiences HERE), for obvious reasons, I'm a bit concerned. I'm hoping it is just a wee bit of nothing. I feel like I *deserve* it to be a wee bit of nothing, given my horrendous track record with my previous car. Call it karma (though My Name is Earl has tainted that term), but I FRICKING DESERVE A CAR THAT I DON'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT ALREADY, OH GREAT GODS AND GODDESSES! So for the moment, I'm a bit worrisome about *this*.

And then, on top of it, my landlord is selling our property, which makes me a tad bit nervous about potential increased rent when it comes under new ownership. But I'm not even worrying about that for the time being. What is stressing me out with regard to *this* is that they keep having to come show my apartment. Which would be fine if they'd do it on days that I'm home. But they don't. And I worry that (given the fact that they're a WEE bit worthy of riding the shortbus) they're gonna accidentally keep the doors open and the cats will escape. And above and beyond that, today it's supposed to be 88 here. Which means my apartment is gonna be the equivalent of the hot steamy bowels of hell, temperature-wise. Which means I've set the A/C up in the kitchen for the cats. But the problem is, whenever unidentifiable people come over, the cats run upstairs, into the hottest part of the house, and stay there for lengthy periods of time. So yet another worry is that they're gonna overheat. Needless to say, I hate expressing all these concerns to my apartment manager, because it is hard to miss the giant neon light that starts blinking over her head that says "Crazy cat lady" and has an arrow pointing straight at me.

Oh man.

Seriously.

I need someone to come over and just bake me lots of cookies and cook me the sexiest dinner possible and rub my feet and pee on me (ok, not that last part, weirdos) and pet my head and dance party with me in my living room and drinks lots of beer.

How 'bout it?

You game?

Fah. "But I live in the U.K., Lindy Loo!" As though that's a legitimate excuse.

I guess I'll just have to try to hypnotize myself with some cat pics and tasty food pics from Nature's Bin deli instead, and hopefully *that* will ease my stress a bit.





Ah, much better.