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I’ve gotten a powerful response to my previous blog about Woonsocket, so I decided to make it a two-fer. Mostly because I’ve been there now! Yay!! Despite all of you doubting Thomasinas, I ventured to this Woonsocket– and found it lovely.

Two friends from the prairie came to visit recently: Heidi and her husband Zac Echola (who wants his name out on the internet as much as possible). I had to pick them up in Shirley, MA and on the drive back to Providence, Zac Echola asked if there was anything we could stop and do along the way. I thought for a bit, then remembered The Museum of Work and Culture in Historic Woonsocket.

“What is that?” Zac Echola asked.

“I believe it’s a museum dedicated to the Québécois who moved here and worked in the mills.”

“Let’s go!” Zac Echola cheered, and his wife rolled her eyes.

So we found the museum, went in, and waited at the desk for approximately three minutes before an old, old man shuffled out of the office and realized we were there.

“It’s only $5 today because there’s a bridal shower going on in the Union Hall.”

“Ok.”

“Are any of you students?”

“Yes,” we told him, “We all are.”

“Student rate is $5,” he paused, “but that doesn’t matter to you cause that’s what you’re paying anyway.” He pulled out a map and a fine point crayola marker– purple. “You’ll start here at the farm house, and if you push this button here,” he drew a dot on the map, “you can hear Jessie and Simone’s conversation about leaving Canada and coming to the New World. Then you go here and push this button here,” another dot, “to watch the movie. After that you go here, and then you can go upstairs. Now usually you’d watch the TV in the Union Hall, but there’s a bridal shower in there today, so I moved the TV upstairs and put out four chairs,” he drew four little marks and a box to represent the television, “here. Then you go here, and there are devices to listen here, here, here, don’t use this one, the sound is so low you just can’t hear anything, and here.” He handed us the newly marked map, “Good luck to you.”

So we went into the farmhouse and listen to Simone and Jessie’s good cop/bad cop routine about coming to America:

Simone: “America is a magical land full of opportunity.”

Jessie: “But we’ll lose out culture and our religion.”

Simone: “In America we can work in the mills and make life better for our parents.”

Jessie: “I don’t want to leave our homeland.” etc.

The exchange lasted a good three minutes, and I couldn’t help thinking: Girls, you are going to go with your parents regardless of your personal feelings about it, so quit wasting my time. Thankfully, it wasn’t translated into Québécois as well, though that may have been more interesting. After Simone had pretty much sold everyone on how glamorous life in America is, we watched a brief documentary about how much it sucks to work in a mill. Nuts to you, Simone.

In the children’s portion of the museum, we had a bobbin sorting contest (Heidi won), I punched in on an old-fashioned time clock (Heidi tried to convince me that it was an antique and I wasn’t supposed to touch it– why would they have sample punchcards there then, hmmm??), and the movable displays sprang to life without our having to push buttons (which after Simone kept us all standing in the farm house for way too long, we decided we were just going to skip from now on), and scared the crap out of us.

On the second floor, I flipped through old yearbooks in the schoolhouse, played the piano in the parlor of the triple-decker (we skipped watching the TV that the old man had lugged upstairs for us, but cheered when we saw the four chairs, just like he had told us), and found the listening device that just doesn’t work (although, someone did attempt to fix it with duct tape– my kind of people).

Then it started to snow on Magical Woonsocket. So we watched it come down, and noticed an outdoor skating rink just across the square, which we didn’t go to, but instead, had a conversation about how outdoor skating rinks are pretty awesome.

We rounded out the day with a walk (in the snow) down the sidewalks in Downtown Historic Woonsocket. Zac Echola marveled at the sheer number of signs advertising “hot weiners”, and bargained poorly for a used CD. Here is a reenactment of the bargaining:

Zac Echola: “I want to buy this CD. This is awesome, Heidi, give me money.

Heidi: “I don’t have any cash.”

Zac Echola: “Andria, do you have any cash I can borrow.” I didn’t put a question mark at the end of this question because Zac Echola doesn’t use question marks.

Me: “I have some cash, but I’m not contributing more than $2 for that stupid thing.”

Zac Echola: “I wouldn’t pay more than $2 for this anyway– I’m going to bargain.” Zac Echola walked determinedly over to the purveyor of the pawn shop, “How much for this CD, my good man.”

Good man: “$2.”

Zac Echola: (brief pause) “Sold.”

Zac Echola then walked back to where his wife and I were openly mocking him and said, “I think he heard us.”

Now to give credit to all of the glorious comments I got on Fascinated by this Woonsocket:

Jenna says:

Q: How many lightbulbs can you screw in Rhode Island?

A: One! There’s only Woonsocket.

— haha, very funny, Jenna

Lex says:

Don’t go

–too late, Lex, and I’m going back. You can come with me.

Sarah says:

Just blog surfing here…I live in Woonsocket. There really is nothing spectacular about it. We don’t even have a bookstore. The Starbucks just recently closed. If you like bargains I’d suggest going to the CVS Warehouse Store Mark Stevens (hours are 10-6 now). If you knit I’d suggest checking out Yarnia.

— I did check out Yarnia. It was a bit out of my price range, but I laughed at the name for the rest of the day. Actually, I’m chuckling about it right now. I will check out the CVS warehouse, because I love bargains, and any town that can close a Starbucks is a-ok in my book.

Joanharvest says:

I was born in Woonsocket, R.I. 58 years ago. My mom and dad owned a grocery store on Manville Road.I went to Mt. St Francis which is now a nursing home.I am half French Canadian. The last time I visited there just to see what things were like was about 15 years ago. My mom had 12 brothers and sisters so I am sure I still have relatives there though we are not in contact. Her maiden name was LeMay. When I lived there it was a textile mill town. I would like to visit again someday.

— Very interesting family history Joan. From my limited time in Woonsocket, I can tell you that it still looks like a mill town, but has adapted with the times. I recommend that you do visit again someday, as it is lovely.

Alf says:

I am bummed that the Starbucks closed. I used to stop on my way to work in Cumberland.

On a positive note, I just discovered a really great restaurant in Woonsocket called Vintage.

–sorry about the Starbucks, Alf, I too appreciate a road coffee on my way to work. Also, thanks for the restaurant recommendation.

There you have it, I have my next trip to Woonsocket all planned: Shopping for bargains, maybe going back to Yarnia, driving down Manville road to see if Joan’s parent’s grocery store is still there, and dinner at Vintage. Maybe I’ll go early enough that I can have lunch as well, since I’ve heard that fish ‘n” chips place across from the Museum of Work and Culture is pretty renowned.

I am a Woonsocketeer.

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Every house in my neighborhood has a fence. Most are of the lovely chain-link variety that say to me either: beware of dangerous dog, or I want to keep my children off of the street, and this is the only way. My house has a chain-link fence that I believe the purpose of is to slow the momentum of cars that drunkenly, or maybe just recklessly misjudge where the turn is and keep them from plowing into the house. It’s just a theory, but that must be the purpose because it certainly doesn’t keep anyone out.

The house that I share a driveway with has been abandoned for a few months, and was recently repossessed by the bank. This isn’t really a story about the horrible housing market and families losing their homes, but more one of an absentee landlord who moved somewhere tropical and stopped being a landlord who did anything for his tenants, but rather one who just collected rent checks. The family that lived there moved into a new place, and a very nice realtor stopped by a while later to give me her card and say that workers would be coming by periodically.

Wednesday morning, I woke up around 7:30, stumbled into the kitchen to make my coffee and saw that there were two men in a beat-up old car filled with fast-food wrappers parked on the lawn right next to my kitchen window. Then I was that there was a gigantic blue dumpster partially blocking the driveway that my car was still parked in. I started my coffee and got in the shower.

By the time I got out, these guys were flinging items out of second story windows into the dumpster (or not sometimes), and yelling back and forth. It was an unpleasant way for me to start the day, but they looked like they were having a lot of fun. Finally, I was almost ready to leave for work when I realized that the driveway was littered with large, broken objects that I did not want to drive my car over, and a giant child’s rocking-horse. I popped my head out the door and yelled at the workman nearest me, “hey guy!”

“good morning!”

“I’m leaving in about three minutes, can you clear a path for me?”

“Ok.”

He did, and I carefully negotiated the very narrow space between the dumpster catching the contents of the abandoned house and the abandoned car that has been parked in the yard since these people left. Seriously.

When I came home that night, the dumpster was still there, but when I woke up, it was gone. Instead of giant dumpster in my driveway, I now had: dirty mattress propped up against house, child’s pink, and adult’s blue bicycles laying forlornly on the ground, and four rusty barrels that must have previously been inside the house– though I can’t imagine why.

This was not an improvement in my mind, though all this new garbage outside kind of created a “white trash” theme along with the abandoned car. I decided my best recourse was to just go inside, close the curtains, and try to forget about the blue mattress interrupting the view from my kitchen window.

Today, I went to the gym and came home to find a truck and corpulent man with a red beard in my parking space. The mattress may not be something I can do anything about (short of moving it somewhere else myself– not going to happen), but corpulent man in my parking spot is. I parked on the street and strode up to him with the angry but polite demeanor of a girl who has just spent an hour on the treadmill and really, really wants a shower.

“Are you about done here?”

“Just got to tighten this up here, gotta keep it tight… lose things on the road.”

Then I realized that this man was taking the offensive mattress and rusted barrels out of my immediate world, and I became a bit more forgiving of his parking-space taking. Then he started blathering on to my about how sad it is that there are all these abandoned houses, but how good it is for him because he’s making a killing picking up this stuff and reselling it. “Two, three houses a day.” he kept insisting as I nodded politely wondering how many more times he could say that. Then I looked at the filthy blue mattress that had been sitting outside for 36 or so hours, through a heavy snowfall, and was now nestled snugly between three rusty barrels waiting to be sold to someone, and I got a little depressed.

Finally he got into his car, started it, then pulled it up further into my parking spot and cut the engine again.

By this point, I decided to just move my car into a different spot that was now accessible since he’d pulled up. So I did, and when I got out of the car, he asked “oh you live here?”

I said yes, and walked toward my house.

“By the way,” he said “you’re cute.”

Normally, I get by without looking like I’ve been beaten with the ugly stick one too many times, but at this moment, with greasy, sweaty hair scraped into a lackluster ponytail, red-flushed face, and the slightly crazy eyes that come with strenuous exercise– I was the opposite of cute. But when a red-bearded, corpulent man calls you cute, what can you really do about it, but shake your head and go inside.

Yesterday, I was assigned to go to another library branch at job #2. No problem, however, one of the women apparently just didn’t feel like dealing with me, so I was relegated to shelving for two hours the way a brand- new person who doesn’t know anything would be. Not being a brand-new person, and certainly someone who could have taken on a more interesting and involved task– this annoyed me.

I am a trooper, and I know not to ruffle feathers on my first day somewhere, so I shelved, and shelved, and shelved, pausing briefly to flip through One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish in Spanish, and a book about dinosaurs–dinosaurs rule. I also stumbled across a juvenile biography of Oprah Winfrey, which caught my eye since a little girl had asked me for one just the other day.

I glanced at the table of contents and first page, then shelved and forgot it… or so I thought.

I mentioned a while ago that I’ve been having nightmares lately. Thankfully the nightmares have slacked off, and now it’s more vivid dreams. The reason that I’m aware of dreaming more than usual is because loveable Watson (kitty) has taken to waking me up between 4 and 5am, by alternating between knocking around the items on my bedside table, batting at the lamp on my bedside table, and yowling. I then have to get up out of my warm, comfortable bed and follow him into the kitchen where the floor is cold and it is dark. I put food in his bowl regardless of whether or not it already has food in it, and then he looks up at me and waits for me to tell him to eat. If I don’t tell him to eat, he will continue to stare up my nose from his position at my ankles, and eventually he will yowl again in a way that can only be translated to: “Don’t you know I’m hungry? Why can’t I have my breakfast?”

It’s like I’m the food taster for some early-rising royal.

So, I gave Watson permission to eat, and crawled back under the covers. I drifted off into that waking half-sleep where the dreams start coming. I was shopping in some kind of fancy department store, but I had a blue plastic shopping cart from Bed, Bath & Beyond. I knew that I must be in Williams Sonoma, not because I’ve been there, but because they showed the inside of the store once on an episode of Sex and the City. I was coherent enough to know that I was bored with the shopping, the prices were too high, and I would rather spend my last few sleeping hours dreaming about something interesting, so I conciously told me dream-self “leave the cart and go do something else.”

Then Oprah’s face popped into the air above my dream-self and said “No, you can’t leave, I told you to go to Williams Sonoma and shop and that’s what you’re going to do.” Shaken, I continued to push the cart around while her head hovered and followed me telling me which dishware she liked and disliked. It was one of the more unpleasant experiences I’ve ever had, in real life or in dreams, but it made it easier to get out of bed.

At job #1, I spend most of my time with a man who I wouldn’t quite describe as elderly, but who did once bring up colonoscopy without a hint of chagrin or TMIness. Anyway, we get along famously, he brings me things, and we have a very healthy working relationship that mostly consists of me asking questions, and him lecturing in a “retired professor” manner. It’s kind of like my dream of going to college for free, except I’m majoring in old books, Rhode Island history, and economics.

Today though, the tables turned. We were wrapping up our working day a little early as he had business to attend to at his “gentleman’s club”. This is not the kind of gentleman’s club with the dancing semi-nude ladies, but rather, the gentleman’s club of yore, when men get together, sip scotch, and talk about leisure activities. I finished entering the information for our last book of the day, and he said, “So, you haven’t found a local boyfriend yet, huh?”

This was unexpected, but I rolled with it by replying, “There aren’t many normal boys in library school.”

He nodded and grinned knowingly, “and you’re not really into that club scene, are you?”

“No. I am not.”

There was a pause, that may or may not have been awkward, but I couldn’t really gauge it, because I was so baffled as to how we went from discussing the state of the economy, Adam Smith etc., to my love life. I inserted, “besides, even if I had been looking and found someone, he would just be another person for me to ignore as, you know, I’m quite busy these days.”

“Well, see you Monday.” he grabbed his bag and exited the room.

This is the kind of situation that I’ve read about for years. This is the kind of situation I’m actually writing a screenplay about, but have never had happen to me, presumably because I haven’t really been noticeably single in quite a while. I guess I should feel grateful (?), because having experienced it firsthand I can better use it in my writing (?) Mostly I’m indignant because I just used the phrase “my writing”, which I’ve avoided– always, and hate– completely. It’s right up there with “my depression” or “my beliefs about how food should be grown/harvested” as things maybe it’s healthy to own, but sound so completely pretentious… blech. So, what, my expiration date is looming and it’s showing on my face? Or is he just being grandfatherly/from a different generation, and wants to see me settled down already!

I’m terrified that he and the wife have been discussing me at home. I’m terrified that he’s going to produce some myopic nephew with whom I just have to have coffee. I just don’t get how we came to this place when less than an hour earlier, we had been talking about a summer internship opportunity I am excited about. We frequently talk about my future, and my career, my previous schooling, my opinions on literature, and my cat– maybe I’m just talking about my cat too much, is what it all boils down to. Still, this turn of events is alarming. I hope it stops here.

It’s a new semester and that means a whole new batch of irritating classmates. I should have known when I sat down next to the gentleman in the blouse, that there would be conflict, but my guard was down. I thought I’d met all of the freaks in my graduate program– I was complacent. I was a fool.

Going around the room, introducing ourselves, I found a lot of reasons to hate my colleagues. Mostly, it’s because they are annoying human beings who talk too much about nothing. Sometimes it’s because their mere appearance walks the line between fusty and unkempt in a way that I find visually appalling. Sometimes, in the case of the gentleman in the very contrived blouse/cords set with the artfully tousled curly locks– it’s because of the smug hippieness.

He introduced himself in a loud, clear voice. At first, that surprised me because to look at him, I would not have expected that kind of sound. Then he said “BA in Theatre” and I recoiled. This man was projecting, and I didn’t even realize it. I am slipping, slipping, slipping. He proceeded to tell a tale that involved teaching theatre and getting his position cut. It’s like he climbed into my head at that point and saw that I was thinking he must have been fired by someone else who found him irritating, because he said five other teachers were cut as well. After that, he got an English degree and taught at a boarding school until he realized that he wasn’t making any money.

Now he lives in his parents basement and plans to finish this 42-credit graduate program in 1 year. “I just read and research all night. I’m just down in my parent’s basement researching, and researching. If my friends didn’t come over and pull me out every now and then, I’d be researching all the time.”

Let’s pause and take a look at those sentences, because to me, that screams “I’m always on the internet, and I call it research because I’m reading sites that may or may not have any actual validity, but make me feel smart.”

Then we got to the interests portion of the introduction. Of course, he’s interested in research, but apparently, never leaving the house to do it (print sources are still viable, guy), he also plays the didgeridoo (naturally), which he had to explain to us “is a hollow tubular instrument originating in Australia. It sounds like an Alpine horn, and is very difficult to play.”

Ok, the didgeridoo does not need that much explanation. I think it’s safe to assume that most people know what it is. For me, it brings up a particularly hilarious memory.

I was at a 5-day folk festival where the idea is: sleep in a tent, get up, eat a vegan hot dog, buy some handmade goods, and listen to music. One of the handmade goods that was available was a didgeridoo. I don’t know if these were as authentic as the one I’m sure the guy in my class plays. I never went into the “buy a didgeridoo” booth, so I don’t know if the people crafting them were even Australian, and this folk festival was in Canada– so I doubt it.

There was also, in the camping spot next to ours (they weren’t camping sites, per se, it was very much “here in the field man, create a shelter”) These were yuppie hippies, specifically a yuppie hippie couple who you know go around saying “We do this, and We don’t do that, and We have a farm share, and We don’t drink bottled water ever!” They were a breed that I had not previously encountered, but read about in magazines. What this means is: they were constantly clad in all-natural fabrics, but the clothes never appeared dirty and always fit them well, they had a rather ornate and spacious tent that was clearly vintage, but in really good shape, they bounced out of bed so early in the morning that we never really saw them, and must have either used the shower truck, or (this is my theory), went back home every day to bathe and put on fresh clothes that hadn’t been shoved into a dirty backpack for three days.

I found these people amusing, and wondered why they were never just back at the tent, hanging out and drinking beer/getting high like everyone else. The female counterpart of this duo reminded me of an elementary school hall monitor. She was friendly in a way that you know she was to EVERYONE, but didn’t have time to be actual friends because of her hyper-scheduling.

On the second-to-last day of the festival, when the rest of us were so filthy and sunburned that we were barely aware of anything else– the male counterpart had a birthday. Somehow, we were just rolling out of bed, after the two of them had already had a full morning, and we managed to catch them back at their tent, which I swear they hadn’t set foot near in at least two days. The girl was bouncing around, all full of the energy that only a vegan diet provides you, and she called out “ok, come and see!”

My camping partner and I peeked discretely through the mesh window of our tent to see this guy emerge, and clap eyes on a large, painted hunk of wood with a bow on it. “It’s a didgeridoo– for you!” she told him gleefully. His face at that moment, as he took in this awkward hunk of wood that he would have to carry back to the car, and probably never learn to play, was the very epitome of “nonplussed”. In the spirit of yuppie hippie love, though, he shook off those feelings and clamped his lips on the didgeridoo producing what sounded like a very wet “hand-fart”.

That’s what I think of when I hear the word didgeridoo.

The artfully tousled blouse-wearer followed up his explanation of what a didgeridoo is with another interest: Tuvan throat singing. Of course. He explained what it is, a brief history, and how he found two local masters (really? two masters, right here?) who are willing to teach him when he’s willing to stop researching and leave his parent’s basement.

Naturally, someone asked him to give us a demonstration. He said, “I don’t think that would be appropriate since I haven’t been trained at it well enough, and I don’t like to misappropriate others’ cultures. That’s really important to me.” Drat! Now he and I can never be pals because one of my hobbies is misappropriating others’ cultures. I do it as much as I can, and will never be satisfied.

I just wonder if I can avoid this guy enough to not say something completely inappropriate, like the above statement, to him. Whenever I encounter people like this, my inner asshole comes out, and I just can’t help myself. I wind up saying something, either obnoxious, or ridiculous, or something that never puts them in their place, but makes them shake their heads at me like “oh poor you, you have a lot to learn.”

My friend from cowboy-ski-pole country commented a while ago that she doesn’t understand how I manage to work 2 jobs, excel in grad school, read 100 books a year, and contribute regularly to 3 blogs. My first thought was: I only managed to get to a mere 100 when I started reading in May, and even then it was 108. Then I realized that that is a bit crazy, and I may, in fact, be an overachiever, and not even know it.

I always assumed that I can’t be an overachiever because I’m so laid back about everything. But as I reflect back to high school where I was required to earn 100 points on reading tests (this was the semester I took English III as an independent study because I ran out of other classes), and I managed to earn something like 300 points; I ponder the fact that I will have 2 Master’s degrees before age 30, and am still considering doing the dual program and picking up a third; and can’t help but notice that my library requests include practically the entire “Modern Scholar” series of audiobooks so I can brush up on everything from the history of Ancient Greece to important precedents in American legal history while I drive between jobs and home– I think I have to reevaluate my perceived overachieving status.

Don’t overachievers suffer gastrointestinal distress, or just distress in general? Aren’t they typically very pinched-looking and miserable, possibly causing their hair to fall out prematurely as a result of hyper-scheduling and perfectionism?  I’m not high strung enough to fall into that group, although I am often the victim of the gape-mouthed stare when I recount how I spend my time. I’m very torn on this issue, as is evident. Then I think about baby-having best friend (who says she had twins because she is such an overachiever), who I always considered the overachiever of the bunch telling me that I need to just slow down.

This revelation doesn’t change anything anyway, though it is a bit interesting– to me. Honestly, if I was that much of an overachiever, I would have come up with a synonym for overachiever by now so I wouldn’t have to keep repeating it over and over.  In the immortal words on Ashlee Simpson “I am me/ and I won’t change for anyone.” Now I guess I know myself a little better, and soon I’ll know more about Ancient Greece, important American legal precedents, dinosaurs, writing more persuasively…

* This $4 bottle of pinot noir is not as good as the first time I bought it…

* I’m starting to think it’s inevitable that I will acquire the New England accent no matter how much I fight it…

* I went to the store to buy soup that is on sale and found out that it is not on sale until Friday, why send out the flier so early and trick me?

* I wish I was friends with Henry Rollins…

I have two jobs, neither of which are in the city where I live. I do a lot of driving, is the end of that sentence. A few days ago, I was leaving job #1 and I saw a pack of Canada Geese, at least 20, hanging out by the side of the road. It wasn’t the side of the road that was a field, but rather the space between two busy highways. They were standing there, completely unconcerned. It looked like they were having a tea party.

The following day, I was driving to job #2. It was a rather cold day, but I passed a group of about 5 people gathering in front of a building. They were setting up pictures on easels. I assumed it was an art sale of some kind. When I was close enough to see the pictures, I realized that they were dead babies, some in pools of blood. This was 8:55am.

I grew up in two states that are very pro-hunting. When I was very young, I accepted it as just a thing that adults do, and didn’t really feel one way or the other about it. Growing up, I started to find it to be rather deplorable because no one could give me what I felt was a decent reason of why it was necessary. I thought having deer wander into my backyard was magical.

I was walking to work one day in High School, and I had to walk past a deer head that was lying on the curb in front of someone’s house. I had to walk past it again on the way home. It was there for days.

In high school, one of my best friends was hit by two deer. She hit them, because they ran into her car from the side and then bounced off of her grill. She was uninjured, but had to buy a new car– I can only assume the deer died. Years later, I was with that same friend driving down I-94, when a pick-up in front of us hit a deer. Previously, I ignorantly assumed that hitting a deer caused it to fly into the ditch off of the road. That is not the case, certainly not on a busy interstate. By the time that deer got to our car, it was just a torso. The torso hit the grill spraying the car in blood. We ran it over and I head firsthand that awful “body under the tires” sound, then I imagine the car behind us pulverized it further.

My brother hit a deer, a few years later, and had to drag the still living, but fatally wounded creature into the ditch while it groaned and writhed in agony.

I’ve changed my mind about hunting, but I still don’t think heads should be left on the side of the street in the middle of town.

* Movies are too expensive– full stop

* The more I listen to the news, the more pessimistic I become, but I like being informed

* My boss at job #2 told me that my rate of pay was slightly higher because I have a Master’s degree already– that’s the first time I’ve ever heard that, and I’ve had that degree almost 2 years

* This semester is going to be better than last, but even after saying that, I have no more ambition than I did last week

I’ve been having a lot of nightmares lately. Maybe it’s the stress of starting school, maybe it’s the stress of a personal relationship, maybe it’s the dryness or frustration with the fact that I keep feeling run-down and sick. For whatever reason, I keep waking up exhausted. I dreamt that I had a huge fight with my father and he disowned me. I dreamt that is a post-apocalyptic world I was being hunted by my enemies. I dreamt that an entire room of people was mad at me for something I didn’t do. I dreamt I was fired from both my jobs and called a fraud. Usually my nightmares are that people are angry at me, and I wake up probably crying out in my defense.

I’m in a state of financial fast for the first time in a long time since the bills for my post-christmas shopping are coming in, and my gas bill was exorbitant last month. I have to break the fast today though, to go buy that soup cause it’s just too good a deal to pass up

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