new things

Daisy is doing very well. I am over the moon with happiness. 



Some of y'all may have noticed that the title of the blog has changed. 

{ I apologize to any of you who dislike change. }

I've been debating it for some time. While this blog has held the title "Sick B*tch" for like 5 years and is thus well known by that name, I am sick of calling myself sick. Things are going extremely well in the ED recovery department, so I thought it was finally time to cast aside the "Sick" title for something better. 

Like my stage name. (For when my brothers and I take our musical genius on the road, under the name The Brooks Brothers and the Bastard Henry. Yes, I know, 'tis a brilliant band name.)

The URL will stay the same because I'm lazy and don't feel like learning to type something else.

New post(s) coming soon! I decorated for Christmas, so I might make another video.

DAISY ATE ALL OF HER BREAKFAST THIS MORNING

I had to take an extra half our for lunch because I was sobbing with joy and had to calm down enough to return to the office. 

She's not 100% yet, but definitely improving. 

Thank you my friends for all of your kind words. <3

.

My cat is dying. 

I know Daisy is not exactly young at 14, but she was always pretty healthy. And then she got suddenly really sick over the weekend. I feel like it's all my fault for leaving her overnight on Thanksgiving, like maybe she ate too much too fast from the food I left for her, and was stressed out being alone. 

$4,000 spent at the vet and the emergency animal hospital, and she's not getting better. I took her home yesterday after 3 days in the hospital, as they said she might recover better in her own home. 

But she won't eat. Or drink water. And I feel like a horrible person every time I force her pain meds and appetite stimulant down her throat, and inject her with anti-nausea medicine. 

And now the vet says if she won't eat, then the only thing they can do is put in a feeding tube until she recovers, but the actual problem (pancreatitis) will never go away. 

So even if she does recover from this flare up, this could happen all over again. And again and again until it eventually kills her. 

I don't have money for the feeding tube. I am maxed out credit wise. And even if I did, I don't want to put poor Daisy through all that, especially if it might not even work.

I just don't know. 

Job appreciation sort of

In honour of Thanksgiving, I thought I would do a Boss Appreciation Post.

I complained about Bossman quite a bit over the years (especially in the beginning when he was mean, before I had him trained). Now, though, I find that I actually do enjoy my job. It's not my dream job or anything, but I do like it.

With all the psycho and/or deadbeat divorce clients, whiny litigation manbabies, teenagers doing wildly illegal things in full view of the police, and the Russian Mafia, our office is a fecking circus. 

So in honour of Bossman, here is a "best of" compilation of all the spectacular things he has said over the years (mostly overheard phone convos), in case you missed any on Facebook:

"As your attorney, I advise you to GET A F**KING JOB."

"I have to go to my mom's around noon and pill her up."

"Oh look, they sent us free pens for our whorehouse."

"I have to run out for a few minutes; I need to go get a new set of balls."

"We got a fax from that moron hippie social worker."

"I'm going to club him like a seal on Friday, right after I knock the smurf out of your husband."

To me: "Well maybe YOU can survive without the A/C on, but I'm a Jew. We tend not to like ovens.

"That's actually going to help him become a better white supremacist."

"Just DON'T DO ANYTHING because when you do things, you f**k everything up!"

To his fiance, Bosslady: "I don't want to make a decision about the Christmas tree; I'm a F*CKING JEW."

To me: "I'm going to the doctor to get some more codeine cough syrup. We're doing shots of it later."

__________________________________________________

Bossman: [[very serious tone]] "I need you to come into my office."

Me: [[terrified I'm about to get fired.]]

Bossman: "Sit down, this is very important."

Me: [[sits]]

Bossman proceeds to make me watch this video:

___________________________________________________

"Oh Allstate says we can appeal? I'll tell you exactly what my appeal will be - A F*CKING LAWSUIT"

________________________________________

Me: "Why does he have a new phone number every week??"

Boss: "Because he's a drug dealer."

That same drug dealer resulted in this bill getting faxed to us after his overnight in jail:

I DON'T EVEN WANT TO KNOW

________________________________________

Bossman: (on the phone" "Yeah I've become sort of a bullying expert."
[We've had a grand total of one bullying case.]

"Obviously he can go f*ck himself, and I'm going to send him a letter confirming that."

(^my all time fav)

____________________________________________
Me: "I'm gonna need you to find somewhere to go Thursday night so me and my cats can stay your house until my mother moves into her condo."

Boss: "....Ok, sure."
_____________________________________________

One from Bosslady:

"I just touched her boobs. They're new."

Some from Me (mostly from facebook):

My boss asked if he could borrow a scissor, so I gave him half of the scissors and now he's mad.

We've reached the point with one of our clients where if you say his name out loud 3 times, everyone in a two-mile radius gets sued for malpractice.
(that was the client to whom we successfully sent a letter quoting Darth Vader)

I don't get people who treat a law office like a cheap salon. Like seriously unless you are in the Russian mafia, walk-ins are not welcome. You need an appointment.

I love how our professional private investigator claims they couldn't locate someone who I managed to locate on the internet in less than a minute.

______________________________________________________

Me: "I didn't know what you wanted for your birthday, so I got you some fava beans and a nice Chianti." ::manic smile::

Boss: "You scare me sometimes."
______________________________________________________

From others:

Bergen County Asst. Prosecutor: "Yeah I just wanted to call and tell you your client is a lying sack of sh*t."
This was followed by maniacal laughter, and then she hung up.

__________________________________________________________ Client (to his friend) - "He's dating a porn star." Friend - ::laughs like a total lunatic for a solid 90 seconds and then starts choking:: Boss: "I guess you don't have a problem with that then" __________________________________________________________

The Russian Mafia:

Boss: "So one of my Russian mob guys came home from Russia yesterday and found a divorce complaint on his kitchen table. .....Yeah she's smart; no one knows where she is."

Me: a member of the Russian mafia just showed up at the office wearing a pink checkered shirt and orange crocs

______________________________________________________________
Russian: [holds up his $1,200 Prada briefcase] "Can I leave this in your office? I can't take it on the plane."

Bossman: "....Sure ok."

[[5 minutes after he left, we peeked in the briefcase. It is full of cash.]]
__________________________________________________________

Russian mafia quote of the year: "As far as they know, I haven't killed anyone."




Happy Thanksgiving y'all!!! THE BOOKS ARE ALL FREE ON KINDLE FOR BLACK FRIDAY

a small update, and some other things...

Hello all, I hope everyone is enjoying autumn (or spring, if you're on the other side). 

A friend has convinced me to join her in Trades of Hope. It's a really great organization--they help women who have been rescued out of human trafficking, or whose families were starving and in poverty and they give these women jobs. It's not charity, but instead it's giving people opportunities to get themselves out of bad situations. 

The artisans make their jewelry or scarves or ornaments and name their price, and Trades of Hope pays them, and then catalogs the items for us to sell.

Normally I wouldn't go around advertising and trying to sell stuff like this, but it is for a really good cause. And since packing up my belongings and setting off on a missions trip to the other side of the world is unfortunately not practical for me right now, this is a good alternative.

Also they have some REALLY REALLY nice jewelry. Like this pearl bracelet I bought:

(Please excuse the redness of my hand, I am once again running a fever.)

If anyone is interested, here is my web store:
 www.mytradesofhope.com/aislingbrooker 

I'm still extremely new at this, but hoping to plan an online "party" soon, so if anyone would be up for joining that, let me know! And of course, I'd be more than happy to answer questions. CHRISTMAS IS COMING people, and everyone you know needs nice accessories.




In other news, my wisdom tooth issue is currently on pause. Since my insurance will not cover its removal unless it is an *emergency*, I am forced to ignore it until it is an actual emergency. I am also now ill with some new infection, with yet another fever. I give up.

the one about the boobs

Everyone loves big boobs. What's not to love?

LOTS AND LOTS OF THINGS.

When I put on weight, it goes straight to my chest and hips. I'm not complaining mind you; there are worse places the weight could go. But it can still be a pain in the arse.

Navigating stairs first thing in the morning requires both hands on your chest. You will not know true pain until you run down the stairs and forget to hold on to your boobs.

My underwear supply contains three different bra sizes, because the slightest fluctuation in weight can send me from a C to a D. Even then, the bras rarely fit right. The cups might be larger, but in reality the bra is simply not designed to hold that much boob. Thus you end up with what my friends and I call the "two not four" problem, where the top of your bra cuts your boobs in half.

The fashion industry does not cater to large-breasted women, unless you really enjoy going around dressed like you work the red light district. Every top I own was carefully selected because finding a fitted shirt with enough room in the chest that my cleavage is not popping out of the shirt is nearly impossible. Most shirts that are not low-cut leave me feeling like I'm wearing a boa constrictor.

And button down shirts? Forget it. If you have big boobs, you can never wear those. That was lots of fun in Catholic school. Especially when I was 12 and the only girl in class with boobs.

Also whoever invented the cami with the built-in bra should be PUNCHED IN THE FACE.

They wouldn't bother me so much if there were more non-built-in-bra camis, but seriously no matter what store I go into, EVERY MOTHEREFFING CAMI HAS A BUILT IN BRA. Most of the time I end up just buying them and then cutting the bra out when I get home.

Another trend that REALLY REALLY NEEDS TO STOP is the dress worn by every single effing bridesmaid ever since the late 1990's. I don't care what anyone says, I've seen at least 50 different weddings on facebook alone and in all of them, the bridesmaids are all wearing the exact same dress. The only thing that changes from wedding to wedding is the colour.

First of all, these shapeless strapless bridesmaids dresses are awful in general.

Secondly, I cannot think of a meaner, crueler thing to do than to ask your big-tittied best friend to wear a STRAPLESS dress in your wedding.

None of those "strapless bras" or those weird squishy stick-on bras actually work if you have big boobs. None of them. Ever. Large-breasted women simply cannot comfortably wear strapless dresses, unless you are strapped into that thing with an 18th century whale bone corset.

You know what's really awkward? People who like giving really tight hugs. I usually go into hugs in a sort of forward arch that probably makes me look like a vulture.

But you can't maintain that position with someone who drags you into a really tight hug. Then comes that awkward moment when your boobs are pressed against someone who is not your significant other.

 .  .  .

On the positive side, you'd be amazed how many things I can conceal in my bra.

That really comes in handy at concerts.

I'm going to complain about rape culture now.

Last night, I sat outside in my beach chair to have a cigarette before bed. I heard what sounded like rustling in the bushes and waited to find out what sort of animal would emerge and how fast I would have to flail and make noise to scare it away before fleeing into the house.

But then the sound changed to shoes stepping over rocks. A person, not an animal.

And then some dude appeared from behind the neighbour's bushes and walked towards me.

Mum's condo is in an extremely safe suburban neighbourhood. But my first thought was not "oh hey a neighbour that's cool." My first thought was to consider how much damage I could inflict upon him before running and screaming. I had a cigarette and a lighter as my only weapons, and the sliding glass door is kind of difficult to open in a hurry.

It turned out the guy was not a serial rapist, just a neighbour two units down who noticed that someone else was smoking outside and decided to say hello.

I tend to turn a blind eye (or just find something else to do on the internet) when the issue of rape culture comes up in my Facebook or Tumblr feed. I know it's an issue, but burying my head in the sand keeps me from getting upset about it. Because in reality--as last night's incident can prove--there is no way to truly ignore it.

Last night was not an isolated event. There is at least one time every day of my life where I have to stop and assess a situation before I can feel safe continuing about my merry way.

Sometimes when I'm alone in the office, we get random male visitors (delivery guys, lost people looking for someone else's office, walk-in new clients, etc.) and there are times when I freeze and make sure I am ready to grab the scissors just in case the guy that walks in is dangerous.

Sometimes if I'm running errands and it's dark out, I will not park or get out of my car if there are no parking spaces left in the lit portion of the supermarket parking lot. I'll go to a different store.

I no longer go hiking alone, because a while back there was a news story about some girl getting attacked in Ramapo Reservation, which is what I would have considered the safest spot to hike around here if you're alone. Even before that, I went hiking armed with a hunting knife.

I stopped going out to pubs on the weekend with friends because there were too many incidents with guys getting overly aggressive and angry because I didn't want to give them my number or go home with them.

Remember in the past how I've panicked because someone bailed on a concert and I was left going into the city alone? Recently a guy acquaintance asked me why the heck I was so panicked about it. And he was serious. He actually didn't understand why I was so afraid.

And this is why I scroll past those stories in my news feeds and bury my head in the sand. Because this is how life is and I hate being reminded. Constant vigilance. Constant fear. Because I am female.

I've read people on the internet who say that all of the above is bullshit. That bothers me even more than the constant fear. I know what it's like to be chased home in the dead of night, your only thought an intense, almost crippling fear. I know what it's like to be cornered in a dark and empty hallway where there is no one nearby who will hear you cry for help. I know how awful it feels to have a complete stranger grab your ass or your boobs.

No one can tell me my vigilance and fear is just me being paranoid.

so don't cremate me when I'm gone, I won't be gone for long

Hey y'all. It's been a while.

So my trip to the doctor from the last post ended with me getting diagnosed with IBS (and there I was thinking that all my digestive issues were just normal) and put on a diet of mostly protein and veggies (because my body has decided it is incapable of digesting processed sugar, bread, rice, pasta, or anything similar), plus a probiotic supplement.

I imagine that the bulk of my tummy woes are the result of years of disordered eating and not IBS, but whatevs.

In other news....

I went to see the Handsome Family in NYC on August 30th, and had several panic attacks throughout the day beforehand because M. bailed at the last second and I am TERRIFIED of going into the city (any city) at night alone.

It turned out kind of awesome though, because I made friends with the people behind me on line outside the Mercury Lounge and gave away M.'s ticket to one of them, and also got to meet the band, and got some great photos.

Rennie Sparks is lovely and I'm pretty sure she's a faerie or something.

if you picked Rennie, you fail at life

Last Saturday I went to see Th' Legendary Shack Shakers in Asbury Park. I was a little disturbed by the intense amount of skankage going on in front of the stage. I like to pretty much sit on the stage and take pictures, but sadly I couldn't get as close as I normally would without getting drenched in STD's.

J.D. Wilkes made up for this by shooting snot rockets into the crowd of under-dressed over-drunk girls, and playing the song I had requested on the band's facebook page.

The first band, Whiskey Shivers was glorious. I have never before met someone who has a mullet and is also GORGEOUS.

Also the entire band went on stage with no shoes, and they all look like they just crawled out of a swamp. Their music is really good, I bought a CD and have had this song on repeat for like a week:

This weekend, I turn 30. Mumsy is throwing a party for all of her friends because I said I didn't want any fuss (parties = fuss). (She did this for my 16th birthday and my college graduation as well.) I'm more excited about going out for dinner Saturday to my fav restaurant.

I am preparing to gain an absurd amount of weight, as after my birthday weekend, Anorexic Auntie and Loud Auntie shall be arriving from Ireland. You remember them.

the four horsewomen of the apocalypse, from left to right: Loud Auntie, Mumsy, Anorexic Auntie, and Bipolar Auntie

We will most likely be eating out every night that they are here, so I should probably be going out right now to buy several more pairs of sweatpants for when none of my clothes fit me.

You know what's fecking amazing?

Quick Chek harvest spice coffee.

There's no need to call me 'sir', professor.

We've all got weird habits and phobias and strange pet peeves and weird issues in general. And an obsessive compulsive brain can really take some of those weird fears and habits to an extreme.

I feel like I've spent most of my life trying to hide some of my stranger paranoias. Mostly I can keep them hidden.

Mostly.

I used to have an extreme fear of peeing myself in public. Like I would need to use the loo every 20 minutes if I was not at home. I still always carry a huge supply of tissues in my purse, just in case I have a bathroom emergency in a place with no bathrooms. It got so bad at one point that even though I was really into outdoor things like hiking, I would ONLY go hiking where there were bathrooms or port-a-potties.

Another phobia has actually gotten me to quit smoking cigarettes in the car, because I have this intense fear of accidentally setting my car on fire. I get paranoid about getting flat tires as well, and never trusted the little gauge on my dashboard that's supposed to tell you if you have a flat tire. I have this portable tire inflator that I keep in my car just in case I get a flat tire. If I'm stressed out, I'll pull over and check the air pressure in all my tires pretty much every time I hit even a minor pothole. And I'll pull over in the sketchiest, most secluded areas when I do this because I'm really self conscious about my weird paranoias, and thus must make sure no one sees me in action.

(Last time I did that back in winter{April}, I discovered afterwards that I was trespassing on US Army property...)

The worst paranoia? Intestinal parasites. A number of times in my life, I have become totally convinced that I have worms. And when your biggest fear in life is worms, this is a major problem.

I think maybe I have tummy parasites.

I don't know why. I just woke up this morning with that notion in my head, and of course immediately began manifesting all of the symptoms of intestinal parasites. And you know how intense panic can make you really really need the bathroom? Well on top of the intense panic I am terrified to use the bathroom, in case I see worms. (That's gross, I know, I'm sorry.)

When the I-totally-have-parasites-panic reaches this level, I have two options: take dog de-wormers, or go to the doctor.

I've taken dog de-wormers before and survived, but they made me very very ill and I am well aware that they are really not good for humans. So after an hour and a half of sitting at my desk in a state of mental anguish, I finally gave in and called the doctor. But it's not the doctor who already knows about my madness in the parasite department, because he's too far away from work.

So now I can dread the trip to the doc, because (trust me) this is one of the most awkward conversations anyone could ever have with a doctor. It usually goes something like this:

More than once, following this scenario, I have walked out of the doctor's office with a prescription for worm killing meds, a prescription for xanax, and a suggestion that I go see a therapist.

Any officer who goes into action without his sword is improperly dressed.

Some things that have happened:

I have officially moved out of the apartment. Half my stuff got thrown out. I left the furniture and a ton of other things in the apartment for my landlord to deal with. Everything else went into a storage container (one of those pod things they deliver to your driveway), which was bombed for fleas.

(This was a dramatic event in itself, wherein Stepmom did a number of sneaky subtle things to ensure my father and brothers were nowhere to be seen when I really needed them, particularly on the day I actually had to move everything into the storage pod thing. Right before I had a full on psychotic episode, Ruthie{the pastor's wife} showed up with four guys from church to help load everything.)

I have spent the last week and a half placating my mother, who has the emotional maturity of a spoiled six-year-old and needed someone to hold her hand and guide her through the process of packing and moving out of her house.

(At 65 years old, this was the first time EVER that she has had to physically pack her belongings to move. Before now, everything has always been done for her. Y'all can probably imagine how fun my life has been the last week and a half.)

Some inspirational quotes from Mich:

"For feck's sake, it's putting things into boxes, not bloody rocket science. Stop whingeing and get off your arse and just DO IT."

"What happened to the woman who raised me to believe fretting over things was weakness!? Get your ass upstairs and pack your shit like a fucking Viking."

On the day of the actual move, the household turned into a circus. Mum locked herself in her bathroom and cried at approximately 8.30 AM. The movers arrived late, at about 9.00 AM. I was bitten by one of these arseholes:

and bled all over three of Mum's boxes of belongings.

(It wouldn't stop bleeding for like 2 days.)

Daisy the fat cat nearly escaped the house while we were trying to wrangle the cats into their carriers. But then instead of escaping out the open front doors, she ran past them and scurried into the wall in the basement. While Lil Sis just stood there and cried, I climbed into the insulation in the wall and got the cat out. Half of my body is now covered in an epic rash.

The realtor for the buyers showed up at around 10.30 AM and started bitching and being obnoxious in general because the movers weren't moving fast enough. Lady is a straight up psycho like for real. She had the crazy eyes. The movers eventually kicked her out of the house right before Mumsy called her mentally deficient to her face.

I kicked my boss out of his house so I could stay there overnight with the cats, since Mum wasn't allowed to move into the new condo until the day after we moved out of the old house. Daisy was not amused. Harleyquinn took it in stride, wandering about the house like she owned the place. 

Ivy was unsure how to react, as she usually relies upon Daisy's and Harley's reactions before she imitates them, but since they reacted to the moving situation with opposite attitudes, Ivy couldn't decide whether to hide under the bed with Daisy or hang out on the couch with Harley. Mostly she followed me around making her confused noise.

As of Friday, the condo is officially Mum's. I actually like it a lot more than I thought I would. 

Yesterday I met Rowdy Roddy Piper.

and he's like the nicest guy ever

And Josh Stewart and I are getting married any day now.

Robin Williams committed suicide.

I don't know why I'm so incredibly upset about this, but I am.

Just 2 posts ago, I quoted him from one of my fav movies.

In which everything goes to hell (again), depression occurs at inopportune times, and I have realized I don't want to own any more possessions than what will fit in my car.

Turns out my cats did not have fleas.

My f*cking apartment did.

I had this whole long thing I had started to write, but I really don't have the energy, so here's what's been happening in the exciting life of Mich:

- I have more or less moved back in with Mumsy. Until last weekend, I had not returned to the hobbit hole for two weeks.

- On Sunday, I discovered there are so many fleas in my apartment, you can't go inside for more than 5 minutes without coming back out COVERED in them.

- My landlord says he didn't see any fleas at all when he went in. He therefore refuses to do anything other than spray some (non-toxic) stuff. Which means everything in the apartment is now garbage because he flat out refuses to bomb it.

- HE ADMITTED THEY HAVE HAD FLEAS IN THAT APARTMENT BEFORE.

- Following that conversation (during which landlord also hinted that I may not get my security deposit back), I turned into a hysterical sobbing mess at work.

(- Several minutes later, I had all four attorneys in the building come into my office telling me to calm down because I work for lawyers and obviously this sort of behaviour from landlord will result in a huge motherf*cker lawsuit.)

- My ability to cope with things in general died by late afternoon. Attempted to drive up to church to help out with VBS (which doesn't end until Friday), but only made it as far as some commuter lot off 17A and cried for like an hour.

- Emptied my purse and evaluated all the pills in my possession. Contemplated taking all of the xanax and valium. Sat there debating it for half an hour before deciding not to because I didn't have enough pills to kill me.

- Arrived home at 8.30. Mum has decided I need to go back to the shrink.

- Dadum and Stepmom called and asked for landlord's number, because obviously they're not treating their tenants right and it's time for Your Father to take care of things.

(-Stepmom believes men should always handle crisis-type tings. At the present time, I agree with her.)

-Today I just feel tired, and numb (possibly a result of the xanax--I have started taking it regularly so as to deplete my supply in an attempt to avoid taking all of it at once). 

- Hobbit hole situation is now in the hands of Dad, who is trying to get landlord to agree to have an exterminator of our choosing come in and evaluate the flea situation. We will go forward from there, based on landlord's response.

This blog is probably going to go quiet for a while. I don't know for how long.

So you're going to a cemetery with your toothbrush... How Egyptian.

I'm having a rough time y'all.

So after the mold was removed and I had [mostly] recovered*, I returned to my hobbit hole last Tuesday evening, absolutely over the moon to finally be home.

And then I noticed there were more than a few spiders and millipedes wandering around.

I killed the millipedes and ignored the spiders. I figure that living in a hobbit hole as I do, I simply get more than the average number of bugs. Plus the place had been vacant for over a week--I had to deal with the same thing when I first moved in. I presumed that just like then, the bugs would feck off after a couple days when they realized someone had moved back into the house.

On Wednesday evening, I discovered a number of dead fleas on the kitchen counter, in the spot where Harleyquinn sleeps**.

Fleas.

FLEAS.

I somehow managed to keep myself from flying into a blind panic. I had not found any live fleas, only dead ones. I had never noticed fleas before. Idk how long the cats had fleas. I had put the Revolution flea stuff on them on Monday night, and I guess I was finding dead fleas because Revolution actually works and apparently the Hartz crap you can get at the supermarket does not.

So I doused my home in flea-killing stuff and did some seriously intense cleaning, and have not seen fleas since.

But the millipedes seemed to have increased in number.

In general I am not squeamish with bugs, but there are a couple of exceptions. Millipedes fall into the exception category.

Over the weekend, I Raided the outside of the house, and inside in the spots where I assumed they were finding their way in.

Even more millipedes started wandering about the place.

Monday, I put down poison stuff in all the doorways and windows and pretty much every single possible place I could think of that might be a potential entrance spot.

Tuesday night, I realized that pretty much every single moment spent in my home over the last 7 days had been spent flying around the house swearing up a storm and going through hundreds of napkins and tissues and paper towels destroying every millipede I saw and I SWEAR THEY'RE LIKE THE FUCKING HYDRA YOU KILL ONE AND THREE MORE APPEAR.

Then yesterday morning at approximately 4.30 AM, I went out to the bathroom.

Millipedes

fecking

EVERYWHERE.

I spent like 15 minutes killing all of them. After that I threw up for the next 5 minutes because I was actually that disgusted. I attempted to go back to bed since I didn't have to get up for another 3 hours, but every time I closed my eyes, my head was filled with visions of tons and tons and tons of millipedes, which just made me terrified that they would reach the bedroom and eventually the bed, which made me feel nauseous again.

At 5.30 I gave up on sleep and got up, fed the cats, and could not eat breakfast because of course the kitchen was full of mothereffing millipedes and I felt double-sick.

So I got dressed, packed up my belongings again, got the kitties into their cage, and am back at my mother's house. AGAIN.

I called the landlord to tell them. They tried to tell me this is *normal* for this time of year, but they would check it out. Today they called to inform me that they allegedly did not see any bugs at all in my hobbit hole.

-__-

I feel like it has been one thing after another since I moved into the hobbit hole. But I love my hobbit hole. Like seriously I LOVE it. I can't afford to move into another apartment. I can't move in with Dadum (for more reasons than I feel like listing). I really really really really really really really don't want to move back to NJ (especially after the epic hassle I went through tochange my car, license, insurance, etc over to NY).

But after some complaining and some thinking, I feel like maybe it would be a good idea to move back in with Mumsy. Right now I'm really struggling to keep up with expenses, and to be honest, it's a fight I'm losing. And if I continue living in this way, I will never do anything else with my life. If I move back in with Mum, I can actually start saving money, and perhaps pursue all the things I would really like to pursue--mainly going back to school, and moving out to Colorado.

I'm not happy about moving back to NJ, but I think I'm okay with it. We shall see how things go..........

*As recovered as I was going to get because seriously I love my mother dearly, but there is a reason I moved an hour away from her.

**Not only have I given up trying to keep the cats off the counter, I have now placed a bed in HQ's fav sleeping spot.