It’s St. Patrick’s day, aka “it’s fucking Tuesday and you’re not Irish you just want to drink”.
I can’t remember who I’m working with today. It’s not StressedRPh, because she’s just starting her quarantine period. Regardless of who my boss is, I’m a little apprehensive about going into work. It wasn’t too bad yesterday, but it had its hairier moments. We haven’t seen a lot of craziness; however, I feel like if we’re not seeing it now, we’ll see it worse later. I prefer my insanity spread out over time, not in bunches. We’ve been given the go ahead to wear jeans and green shirts for St. Patrick’s day, because they think this will make us happier while dealing with this bullshit.
I think I’m just about done clearing out the clothing piles. Last night, I made up two more donation boxes full of clothes. Also, I’m fairly certain there’s some boxed clothes upstairs in a closet, stuff I packed up during his first arrest two years ago. Currently,my clothing is mostly all that’s left, and a few leftover things of his. He’s got some nice work shirts, but it’s a matter of space, and what will do him the most good when he’s out.
At the moment, the living room is filled with empty boxes from work. There’s also a shit-ton of boxed up Lego I’ll ship on the weekend. Tonight, I get to bring out some more trash. It’s mostly boxes of things that can’t be donated, like half-full bottles of cheap acrylic paints and photo albums. I should bring up some more things from the basement as well.
Take out the papers and the trash, as it were.
I’m holding my shit together, for the most part. Every now and then I think about what’s going and it hits me all at once. This isn’t what I ever planned on dealing with in my life. When I was younger, there was an anti-drug campaign on TV with the slogan “no one ever expects to be a junkie when they grow up.” That’s how I feel. No one ever expects to deal with an aggravated felony and deportation of a loved one.
