The Escapist

Thank god.

I have the worst case of senioritis ever in recorded history.

I’m a terrible person when it comes to school lately. I’m getting behind on a bunch of stuff I need to turn in by the end of the semester (so I have about a week). I also learned  that if I was interested in a position with the university newspaper (not really, but I need to build my resume), I need to apply by Monday. Also, there are finals coming up. I am so tired of school I don’t even care, really…

So with an application to fill out, three articles to write, my first final on Tuesday night, what did I do yesterday? I went to Best Buy and bought a game for the Xbox.

(Maybe I’ll resist the urge to take it out of the shrink wrap until next week.)

Well, my money worries are over.

My aunt gave me three grand for living to the ripe old age of 30.

I’m still a little shocked, but you can bet your ass I deposited that check as fast as possible.

I’m only really thinking about this because Lisa is so stressed I think she might be about to climb a clock tower and aim at people she needs to buy presents for. But I’m stressed, too. Usually it is sort of a background stress that presents itself as mild annoyance (on top of my usual level of general annoyance), but now I’m getting Worried.

Here’s my problem. Remember my space sickness of Thanksgiving? I missed a week of work that I couldn’t afford to miss. I mean “afford” in the financial sense. Bills are slipping. My cell phone has been shut off for a week now, and I probably won’t be able to afford to get it turned on until some time after the new year. I have to pay half the cable bill tonight or it gets shut off, and somehow also buy my parents their gifts for Christmas. And the money just ain’t there.

Through an artful use of begging, I’ve convinced my boss to let me work an extra hour a day this week. What does that mean? It means I’ll be working 30 hours this week instead of 25. Woo. No overtime. Oh, and I need to figure out what to do about Christmas Day and the following Friday. I’m a part-time worker so there’s no Holiday pay for me. I’m well and truly screwed financially for the next month. It’s kinda stressing me out. Ya know?

So I guess what I want to know is, does anyone know where I can sell a kidney?

My bank offers short term “Holiday Loans” at a really good interest rate, but let’s not kid ourselves here. At the best of times I can break even and maybe put 20 bucks in savings every other month. I won’t be able to make payments on a loan.

Maybe I should stand on the access road of I-35 with a sign that says, “Will rite prose for cash. God bles.”

Lisa is at a funeral today that I couldn’t make it to…. Finals and such.

I’m convinced that funerals are such an ordeal to make people feel better about getting on with their lives after the circus is finally over.

When I die, I’d like to be cremated with none of that “viewing” business for me, thank you very much. Just cook me up right, shatter and grind the bones, stick me in a plastic bag and punt me off a cliff on your way to a bar.

And when you punt me, try to use the flat of your foot (like you’re kicking a soccer ball) so the bag doesn’t rip and you get covered in ashes. That would just be annoying.

Lisa is gone for a day or two and I’m entertaining myself with reading and half a turkey sandwich I found in the fridge.

Finals are coming up, and I should be studying right now, but I’m so burned out I can’t force myself to pry open my books.

I probably shouldn’t have superglued the pages together.

First day into work all week with the exception of a futile attempt to stay upright at my desk on Monday. That lasted 45 minutes before I couldn’t see straight.

I’m worrying my co-workers with my convulsive hacking cough. At least I’m not coughing up blood like I was this morning.

My arms and legs are tingly and feel like heat waves are radiating from them. My eyeballs are doing this neat pulsing thing and I can feel tiny gnome standing on my back jabbing me with sporks.

I’m tempted to cancel all my Thanksgiving insane-making-plans and just spend the next 4 days in bed trying not to die. I infected Lisa with the Space Sickness as well and while she’s (for once) being pragmatic about me getting her sick, I occasionally want to point at her and crow, “YOU SEE? YOUR SILLY FLU SHOT IS BUNK! BUNK I TELL YOU! BUNK!”

But If I did that, she’d kick my ass.

Man. What an overwhelming amount of attention. I feel like the belle of the ball.

Well, all three of you want me to be funny, so…. how about this:

Zune Paint

I know you are out there reading this thing. I can see you. You’re sitting there in your underwear smoking Pall Malls and using the tweezers to pluck the hairs off that mole.

Are you wanting me to be funny here? Serious? do you want reposting of all the political news I compulsively read? What?

What will make you give me the feedback I so desperately crave?

My birthday is next week.

I am turning 30.

I am not thrilled.

Shower me with love and gifts.

Mostly gifts, please.