I hate moving. We're going to have to live in the new place until we die, because I don't think I'm willing to move ever again. Also, my silver glitter number two rocks. I'm going to hang it up tomorrow.
Of course I wish I had gotten more done this weekend, but oh well. I got some stuff done.
Mostly I just feel sorry for everyone who has to deal with me, because I'm Madame le Prickly Pear right now. Not that I take criticism well under the best of circumstances, but I totally spiraled out on just one negative comment at work last week. The complaint wasn't even actually my fault, but it still messed me up for days. I have a fucked-up babel fish in my head that takes, "I got this one thing later than I would have on my own ideal planet," and turns it into, "Sara is totally incompetent and useless and everyone secretly hates her and she doesn't deserve to be here." Seriously, that's a quote, straight from the inside of my head. It's getting scary in there, because the security patrol that usually deals with this stuff has been all distracted by perfectly normal moving-related stress. So it's like Whoo hoo! Demon party! Activate 7th Grade Module. You gonna cry? Cry! Cry!
Ahem. Yeah. It's a fucking picnic in my head. And the cole slaw has gone bad.
We're going to start doing major furniture moving tomorrow, so I expect Clyde to be in her panic room pretty much all the time until we're ready to put her in the scary kitty box and drive her to the new place, which will feature an hour-long performance of the incredibly passionate and touching I Hate the Car aria. One show only.
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