Last night groomzilla manifested his ugly head and shoved it up into my skull, squashing my brain and giving me a headache that's still going.
With about 2 glasses worth of wine made up of 10 different varieties gurgling around my stomach (courtesy of a wine tasting course), I stood at the sink, the cat yowling for food, beloved already eating dinner and ignoring me, trying to organise myself and 5 things at once.
My focus skewed off like a superball thrown into a cupboard, bouncing from one task to another to another. I stuck a plastic container in the bin. It jumped back out again. I gave it a good hard shove. The bin snapped off its little hinge (its attached to a cupboard door) with a splintering crack and rolled on the floor.
Beloved, who has impeccable timing, decided it was time to give me a good lecture.
I swore some more.
I fed the cat. Cat was grateful, purring loudly, and this helped me collect myself.
I'm feeling a bit of stress. It pulses constantly in my neck and above my eyebrows.
The new position is interesting, but hard work. I'm learning the delights of writing a 10 page paper on complex points of law and policy and receiving it back again, and again, and again, with red pen marks all over it. I particularly relish people who don't write any better than me imposing personal style to the point that they are crossing each other's corrections out. And their own previous corrections!
Our wedding, we've just discovered, will play out to the tune of incompetent, stupid, lazy, pathetic people working on a certain Melbourne train station that's running 6 months behind schedule. Specifically to the tune of those people using a jackhammer the size of a tractor that sounds like an anti-aircraft gun.
A sweet family friend who I used to babysit when I was a kid, who's now in her 20s, has discovered that years of operations she received in Darwin for her cleft palate and hearing problems have been badly botched. She may go deaf as a result.
And my registration on my old school's web portal has come through, opening up the possibility of contacting or being contacted by people from a school that occupied the darkest period of my life. One I've almost buried, and semi-deliberately cut myself off from, but not put behind me. I think it would be good to contact people I was friends with, find out what they've been doing, maybe even re-start a friendship or two, just so that entire episode has some positive consequences in my life.
I'm steeling myself. Thinking about those days makes me dark and stirs something angry in the pit of my stomach.
Homesteading - In my final post on Locke’s theory of appropriation/expropriation, a while back, I mentioned that his latter-day successors, Nozick and Rothbard didn’t off...
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