I am still feeling the sadz, and it is really frustrating to feel sadz. I have no reason to feel that way, or to spell sadz with a “z”. I just like spelling it that way because I can picture my former English teachers twitching every time I type it. (Note: pictures done in crummy old paint, not my new graphics pad, because . . . too much trouble.)
But I was talking about sadz. I have been struggling through work, even though people have made it hard on me. For instance, patrons ask for crap. Usually we don’t get that many people up there, but they seem to have sensed my sadz so now they are up in our little nook every freaking day. And they want me to find them books or scan copies from ancient newspapers.
I hate the scanner. I hate big bound newspapers. I hate kindly old people who ask for impossible to scan projects that no one cares about. Why does anyone care about football in the 1950s? I don’t. I don’t even care about football now. But I am supposed to scan it cause it’s sort of my job. It’s not like I have to cut people open. That would be pretty scary. I can just imagine a doctor saying “Sigh, I have to take his kidney out? A-gain? I’m tired.” I mean, I sure would, but that’s why I’m not a doctor.
But everything is monumental with the sadz. Getting up in the morning for instance. That’s a real pain. I’d rather sleep. Stuff happens too early. And then the next day, the same stuff happens again, at the same time. My alarm clock mocks me. Hahahahahaha, sucker! And then I have to get the Things up, who also do not want to get up, and then we have to somehow get to work and school without dying. Sometimes it helps me to play “Shakedown” from Beverly Hills Cop and pretend like I’m a badass cop who is chasing down criminal parents in their SUVs. Bus-ted. But lately, I have not felt the urge to hunt down stupid people in my pretend cop car. It’s too much trouble.
Last night I went to Hastings, a book and music store. Ours is closing, which is double sadz because it is our only form of entertainment save Wal-mart. The vultures have descended and now the place is a total wreck. Employees could not give less of a crap at this point. They know they’re not going to be there that much longer. Sounds like an awesome job to me except for the long lines of customers buying up crap because, you know, sale.
Anyway, I wandered around in my awful big sweat pants (they fit!) and found nothing to buy. I was hoping to find The Thing That Would Make Me Happy. It was not at Hastings. Hastings sucks. So I got in my car, and then I cried. About nothing. And I drove home and I went to my room, and I laid on the floor and put my feet up on the bed. I like laying on the floor with the sadz. My husband thinks it’s annoying but I feel it adds a sense of drama to the whole thing to lay on hardwood floor.
Weirdly enough, laying like this helped me feel a little better. The blood rushes to your head and your body kind of relaxes. Technically it’s a lazy form of a lazy yoga move called legs up the wall, only my legs were on my bed. I also had yoga blankets not three feet away but they were out of reach, so I just laid on the hard floor and stared up at the ceiling. I had deep thoughts.
Like, hey, when you’re sadz, why do people tell you to think of all the good things you have? Count your blessings, name them one by one. Oh, yeah? Well, bite me. I mean, yes, I have blessings like a husband and Things and a house and food and all that stuff. But that only makes me more sadz because now I’m guilty that I have this stuff but I’m not happy about it.
Also I eat too much food. Pop tarts don’t make you happy. They sure do taste nice, though. Maybe I should send pop tarts to Africa.
Finally my family returned from church so I got off the floor. Tomorrow is another day. I hope I feel better then. And I wish I had a better way to end this blog post. Wait. I know.