It’s been a long day. It wasn’t busy, and StressedRPh wasn’t a complete twat, but for whatever reason, I’m just beat down.
Maybe it’s the fact that the pandemic is throwing a huge monkey wrench in my plan to get out of this place. I finally admitted to myself that I couldn’t stay here alone. It’s not the easiest course, but I decided I was going to make the leap for a new life and a fresh start. I started sorting things out in the house, and donating everything. And then the world stopped, and my plans stopped.
I can’t visit Shawshank, I can’t talk to him for more than 20 minutes at a time. I miss him. I miss the 15 minutes before bed we’d spend laughing over memes or funny animal videos. It’s just me and the cats. They can’t talk back. Chaucer wants snuggles constantly. Mal wants snuggles constantly, with the added bonus of meowing non-stop if I make eye contact with him. He’s headbutting me while I type this.
I’m tired of being alone, I want someone to snuggle me. My mom wants to come up and help clean, and she’d probably love to snuggle me, or at least give me a hug. But right now, without a time frame to go on, I don’t see a huge point to her coming. First, she’d be stuck in the house, under quarantine for two weeks. She’d be coming up from the land of “Y’ALL DON’T KNOW ME”, AKA Florida, where the covid-19 roams the beaches like a burning sensation and smelly discharge. Second, who knows when I can actually sell the house. Even if Shawshank can get out of the US in the next three weeks or so, it’s not like the house will be sold right away. It’s not like the house will get sold any time soon, not the way things are going. I know myself well enough to know if there’s too much time between Mom leaving and getting this place up for sale, it’s going to go right back to square one. I’m a fucking slob.
But right now, I’m a lonely fucking slob.
