My stomach hurts, but that’s stress. I’ve had a headache since I woke up on Saturday, from barometric pressure changes. There’s my normal amount of arthritis pain, always there in the background. USPS, blatant election tampering, and other bullshit going on in the United States. My mother-in-law is trying to stir up drama. Less than two weeks until our immigration meeting. New neighbors moving in, with the usual worries about whether they’ll be noisy party animals. Have to move to a new apartment by the end of the year anyway, so that’s more planning to be done. It’s also time for annual the renegotiation of student loan payments, which is always a complicated and frustrating process. Second wave of COVID-19 ramping up here, so extra precautions and fewer excursions. It’s allergy season, so I’m already fighting a respiratory infection. At some point this week I need to run errands that serve no purpose other than to tick a box so bureaucracy is satisfied. I have tax stuff to deal with by the end of the month. There are business emails that I need to answer. Most of my problems could still be solved with money, but increasingly it feels like my time is wasted begging people with the power to fix things to exercise a minimum of common sense. All I want to do is write, and read, and stare quietly out the window at the lake while there are still green leaves on the trees. I am out of spoons. I am out of spoons.
“We’re all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn’t. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing.”
Charles Bukowski, The Shoelace