I Seem To Be Rather Amicable This Week...
Perhaps I'm running a fever, or I've died and come back as a genteel, Southern Lady.
I’m chalking it up to entirely too much Jeezy in the morning, and not enough vitamin D because it’s the rainy season.
There is absolutely no way that I miss human contact. I know this because I hate human contact. Although I must admit, I miss having my conversations with the crossing guard when I walk the dogs to the park. I miss Mohammed from the corner store because he’s always complimentary and smiling.
That’s two people. In reality, that doesn’t even qualify. It’s barely a blip on the people radar.
It has, however, led me to interact with people in the comments much more frequently than I used to do. Instead of my usual responses of “please go drown” and “just because I’m online doesn’t mean I like you”, I have developed a nearly friendly rapport with people I really never want to be friendly with.
Yes, I know, I feel like vomiting as well. There’s no need to further cause me nausea.
Due to my immune system, or lack thereof, it isn’t a good decision for me to be out and about in the world at this point, so I’ve been honing my Zombie Apocolypse knife-throwing skills, and teaching 2 of 4 dogs to silently creep around corners to retrieve items, because it’s scary as shit. They are absolutely silent, up until they grab the toy, then it’s everyone down to SqueakyTown.
I won’t say that I’ve fully devolved into a member of society, because there is a line I haven’t crossed. The King Of The Fuckboys keeps sending me messages about nothing that say nothing, and I haven’t answered him, not even to say “I need you to leap off of a short pier into shark-infested waters, and quickly”, although that is exactly what I want to type every time he pops up in my life undesired, unrequested, and unapologetic.
No matter how many times I talk of the King and all of the shady ass idiocy that is related to him, I don’t feel the urge to call him. I don’t want to hear his stupid voice, or listen to his stupid excuses, or roll my eyes as he stupidly thinks I’ll believe him when he says he still loves me. After 15 years of more off than on, I can tell you that it appears I have finally had my last dance with the devil.
I have done what I never believed to be possible. No, not turn and walk away from an argument. Psssh. Stop it, it’s me we’re speaking of.
I have finally shelved the memories, and not in the middle pantry shelf where I can constantly eyeball them while using the excuse of going for sugar or dog biscuits. They are on the highest shelf, the one I need Brian to reach for me, and they’re in the very back with the cobwebs I swear I vacuumed out. They are finally exactly where they should be; they’re out of sight and out of mind.