Progress, or not.
Jun. 26th, 2002 05:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladyspriteSo. The bronchitis is getting better. I have a voice again today, and I'm not coughing near as much. I didn't get winded carrying loads of worthless junk from my apartment to my car.
Painting is actually moving forward. We have one room done - you can still see incredibly faint red lines from the previous paint job through the sky-blue we've repainted with (or at least, I can. I don't know if anyone who's not aware of their existence would notice them), but after five coats we've given up. All the old wallpaper is down, and the hallway is all spackled and almost all primed and ready to paint.
All I need to do now is put my head back together, and I'll be fine. I've been working like a dog today, painting and fetching and carrying and retouching and painting more, trying to keep busy enough to keep my head quiet. There's paint in my hair and on my hands and toes and legs, under my nails, bits of old wallpaper stuck to my feet, and none of it is armor against my own thoughts. My hands have started to cramp from holding the roller for so long, and I'm just sitting down to catch my breath before switching to a brush to paint around the banister on the stairs. I have to keep busy, I have to work, I have to keep my mind off.... me. Because if I stop and think, it'll escalate from vague mopiness to the same thoughts that were pestering me yesterday.
I don't even know why I'm writing this anyway. I'd say I'm writing it for myself, but I know what I'm thinking and how i feel. When I was growing up, I'd write journals like this just to get the feelings out of me and onto paper, but that doesn't seem to be working. And it's not like anyone else is reading it, I'm sure. It's called a friends list, but that's most likely because 'vague acquaintances and people who have since learned better who have much more interesting things to do than listen to some freaky pain-in-the-ass pseudogoth mope about her raging inferiorities' won't fit on the page.
Blah, blah, blah. Mope, mope, mope. It's hot, I'm covered in paint, my hand hurts, I'm fat and worthless, and we're out of sorbet.
Back to work. At least I'll be at the office tomorrow, and it's air-conditioned there. At least the painting is getting done. And my sweetie is helping and marvelous, and there's no goddamned reason for me to be moping at all. Damnit.
Painting is actually moving forward. We have one room done - you can still see incredibly faint red lines from the previous paint job through the sky-blue we've repainted with (or at least, I can. I don't know if anyone who's not aware of their existence would notice them), but after five coats we've given up. All the old wallpaper is down, and the hallway is all spackled and almost all primed and ready to paint.
All I need to do now is put my head back together, and I'll be fine. I've been working like a dog today, painting and fetching and carrying and retouching and painting more, trying to keep busy enough to keep my head quiet. There's paint in my hair and on my hands and toes and legs, under my nails, bits of old wallpaper stuck to my feet, and none of it is armor against my own thoughts. My hands have started to cramp from holding the roller for so long, and I'm just sitting down to catch my breath before switching to a brush to paint around the banister on the stairs. I have to keep busy, I have to work, I have to keep my mind off.... me. Because if I stop and think, it'll escalate from vague mopiness to the same thoughts that were pestering me yesterday.
I don't even know why I'm writing this anyway. I'd say I'm writing it for myself, but I know what I'm thinking and how i feel. When I was growing up, I'd write journals like this just to get the feelings out of me and onto paper, but that doesn't seem to be working. And it's not like anyone else is reading it, I'm sure. It's called a friends list, but that's most likely because 'vague acquaintances and people who have since learned better who have much more interesting things to do than listen to some freaky pain-in-the-ass pseudogoth mope about her raging inferiorities' won't fit on the page.
Blah, blah, blah. Mope, mope, mope. It's hot, I'm covered in paint, my hand hurts, I'm fat and worthless, and we're out of sorbet.
Back to work. At least I'll be at the office tomorrow, and it's air-conditioned there. At least the painting is getting done. And my sweetie is helping and marvelous, and there's no goddamned reason for me to be moping at all. Damnit.
no subject
Date: 2002-06-26 10:22 pm (UTC)