Soapbox Diner
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Paryting like 1999 |
07.29.07 |
Ugh. Tummy issues. I hate when stress mades it's way first from the brain, then to the chest where it tightens up your lungs and makes you feel like you can't breathe, then all the way down to the tummy. I'm thinking I have a very low tolerance for financial stress, darlings.
This revelation has been brought to you by the letter S.
So, I don't know. I have oodles of options flying around my noggin. Get a roommate, move out and get renters, sell the house old-school style, sell the house to investors for cash and beat the hell outta Dodge before the credit is ruined. Hang in there and get a foster kid.
Fuck it. I just want out. I want to breathe and not have my head explode and for the love of all that is good in the world, I want my tummy to stop it's menacing gurgling.
Mom came over yesterday and said, 'Oh, it would be such a shame if you sold the house, all your hard work landscaping, and you'll never get a chance to enjoy it.
Thanks, Mom. Eh, you know what? All the pretty flower are just . . . stuff. And if there is one thing I've learned, it's that the one thing that I can survive without is stuff. I'm OK with stufflessness. However, it is a fact that I will readily admit that stuff-havedness is decided better.
In other news, I may have a buyer for the TV - again. I also have two folks coming to look at the house today. It's 10:30 and I've folded all the clothes, washed the dishes, researched selling the house to investors, checked my Eharmony account and discovered a match that wants to chat with me, and now Diarylanding. But I'm going to go now and either bake a homemade chocolate cake or watch TV. I haven't decided yet. I'm gonna go get a cup of coffee and decide on a plan over a cigarette.
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