Always a pleasure, Ota. <3
Relatively minor compared to some things, but I think I'm getting sick. Either that or the heat and my stomach aren't getting along. Regardless, I have had a pretty consistent "I'm going to throw up" feeling for the past couple of days. This is much more of a problem than it should be, because my next possible
day off is going to be Wednesday (my usual store is closed for the 4th, but another isn't so I might [probably will] work there), and also because I obviously don't have much of an appetite, and I already always forget to eat
, added to the fact that I generally don't have much of an appetite anyway. So now I have to remember to eat and make
myself find something that won't trigger my gag reflex, which is unusually active right now.
In short: FUCK. D: Today I've had a bowl of soup and a small salad, and I'm not really sure what to eat now, but I know I should get on that soon. Granted, my "normal" eating for a day is usually something like a sandwich and some chips. fhjdsfkdsjfhdskjhfskhkd.
I work 8 hours a day, minimum, then when I get home, Dad expects me to start working on the house IMMEDIATELY. We had another argument this morning. I got home yesterday and he told me to sand the ceiling in the bathroom and apply a second coat of drywall mud. I'm like, "Okay, sure, let me take this soup over to Mammaw." Then I get back and check with Morgan (because he got mail yesterday from his would-be insurance provider saying that they haven't received the fax we sent like two weeks ago-- no biggie, we can resend it), and THEN, after deliberating on what to do about the insurance situation (whether to wait to see if they find it or to resend it right then and there, which requires going to a post office or UPS store), I chilled for a little bit, because Jesus fuck I need to chill sometimes, and then Dad's knocking on my bedroom door telling me I have to do the bathroom ceiling right NOW. And I'm like, "Can't it wait?" 'Cause it's like a million degrees (we only have air conditioning in the bedroom so far), and he's like, "No," and I'm like, "Why?" And he's like, "Because I'll have other projects for you to do after this one," and I'm like, "Okay, what else do you need me to do?"
And you wanna know what his answer was? HE DIDN'T KNOW. HE WAS RUSHING ME TO DO THINGS THAT HE HADN'T EVEN DECIDED I NEEDED TO DO. DFSHFHAFDAGHDFGSHA.
And there was an argument about it this morning (I snarked it off yesterday because I'm maybe not as respectful of my father as I should be-- but yes, I did
complete the task last night), and he's talking about how OTHER PEOPLE also work, but they still do things at home. And I'm like, "Uhhh, yeah, so do I
. I still do the stuff at home AND stuff on the house." And he starts listing things that we don't have to do. "You don't cook, you don't do dishes, you don't clean the house..." "Yes, we do clean the house [since that really only consists of the bedroom right now anyway, the rest of the place being under constant construction and uncleanable], and we can't cook because we don't have a stove yet, and I have to push someone [in a wheelchair] who weighs more than me three blocks to the store almost every day BECAUSE I can't cook yet. Cooking is probably a LITTLE BIT easier than that."
And then he starts in about "You're 100% concerned about Morgan and not at all concerned about yourself." SDGSHGDASJ YES I AM YOU FUCKING MORON, THAT'S WHY I TRY TO TAKING A FUCKING BREAK BETWEEN WORK INSTEAD OF DYING OF EXHAUSTION.
In short: FUCK.