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bitch bitch bitch.
I'm a broken record of bitching. Barring the children starving, I've complaints.
I awoke this morning thinking it was Saturday (it's friday).
My jacket has a rip in it, and I have only two pairs of pants that I wear (when will it be warm enough for my skirt collection to show?). I have a hole in my jeans - ass pocket. I have a hem I have to get fixed in my other pants. Almost all of my jackets need buttons or pockets re-sewn.
I was going to finally go get my blood work done for my insurance, and I was trepidatious as it would mean being late for work, but I've put it off so long now... Then, I realized I don't have my insurance card - then I realized that I may as well make sure that the good doctor was on my new insurance plan. The one that just took affect three days ago. I had assumed that he would be, but he asked me to check, and he's not - so the saga will continue, and I'm sick of being sick and having to be tied to pills and doctors and changing them all the time. I will miss my husband's insurance indeed. (oh, and I have lost/misplaced my current insurance card anyway).
AND, I feel sad and wonder why. I wasn't sad yesterday. I can buy clothes
- sure. I can repair them. I can even buy shoes. I can go through the ordeal of the doctors again.
I suppose it's just as obvious as a turkey that I feel sorry for myself.
Don't I always.
I was telling the talking shrink (as opposed to pill shrink - oy vey) yesterday that I feel like a poisonous broken record. I don't even feel like writing because I'm only capable of the kevetch. It's cloudy and cold and I am poor and have many things to do of which I have no experience doing. My shrink tells me that I should sit in my pain.
Fuck it dude, let's roll.
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