Damned jumping cursor stupid loser used laptop bullshit, another reason I hate writing in the morning but I have to do it now or I can’t vent. Wish me luck writing anything, readers (oh wait, haven’t got any of those! Well, when I finish writing I’ll read it, that counts as one.
I broke the espresso carafe from our 20+ year old shitty little espresso machine months ago and so of course today Mrs M wanted espresso when I had gotten up way too fucking early and brewed the coffee for us. It’s her shitty little way of reminding me that I’m never, ever, good enough. Or maybe that’s depression-speak. But I hear her loud and clear when she does that shit. So I stood up to brew the espresso and couldn’t find the fucking arm with the coffee basket, she looked and couldn’t find it either. She accused me of throwing it away in a fit of rage. I wanted to retreat because I didn’t want to say anything. All I felt was rage because I couldn’t find it, because she couldn’t find it, because she was snarky about it, because whenever I do something, anything, she finds a way of minimizing my accomplishment and suggesting, or outright asking, if I would do just a little more, just a little more, just a little more until I realize I can’t do whatever it is, and then I swear she’s smug about her superiority and my re-broken spirit. Fuck. It’s because I’m roped and tied. I don’t really want to escape, because when it’s good it’s good. But when it sucks it really sucks.
If I weren’t a loser I’d be able to accomplish shit, I’d have replaced the damned espresso carafe or the whole machine, I’d be able to keep up with the normal things-fall-apart of life and I’d know how to fix things. If I weren’t such a loser I wouldn’t have to put up with second-hand shit because I’d have enough money to just get a new _________. But I’ve never made enough money, and for seasons I just give up and say “fuck it,” and we fall another few thousand behind from where we should be financially. This is why, when the lottery drawing gets big enough for me to just fucking quit everything and everybody, I daydream about actually having enough. And if I can scrape up enough, I buy a damn ticket. And then someone wins that buttload of money, and I wish it had been me.
Young Miss M will soon start driving and want a car for herself, mine is already shitty, rusting, leaking rainwater into the floor carpets from somewhere, and didn’t want to start the other day, fucking check engine light is on but the last time I checked it was a sensor that cost just over $100, and I just put almost a thousand we didn’t have into Mrs. Ms car, so I don’t have it to spend on my car, or Miss M’s wished-for car.
I can’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t HAVE to accept the second hand, the hand-me-downs, the used car, the shitty old third-hand low-tech phone Mrs M got for herself, gave to Miss M, then transferred to me. I can’t remember a time when I was just able to afford to fix shit or replace shit or just call the guy to fix or replace shit. Or buy it new. I go through seasons when second hand is adequate, acceptable, maybe even a fortunate find. And then I go through seasons when I feel entirely dissatisfied with the used, broken down, old shit and I want more, different, better.
Our carpets are original to our second-hand home, and they have stains the carpet shampooer we rented and I got to use on it yay, lightened, but didn’t actually remove. Our garbage disposal was leaking so we had it taken out and the sink plumbed without one. Another sink is currently plugged and very slow, which tells me it’s hair, which Mrs M denies getting in there, and Miss M says “I don’t like that bathroom,” so obviously it isn’t hers either. Young Mr. M and I both have short hair, but sure, it’s me. I clogged the sink.
I need a few weeks off from work, and I think it would be nice to just rent the 25 foot yacht in the fucking Bahamas after the current hurricane passes (see also a prior rant) because 25 feet ought to be enough, right? and let a work crew come to the house, replace the carpet, fix the plumbing, clean the house top to bottom, and while we’re at it, have someone pick up the brand fucking new cars for everyone and park them in the six-car garage and take these used clunkers to auction off, stock the refrigerator, and the liquor cabinet, and have the limo pick us all up at the airport.
Well, because the last paragraph isn’t my present reality, I need to get my ass to work. But for a quick second or two, that was a lovely daydream. Except it’s Mrs M’s daydream and I got roped in and tied up in it again because that’s what she would want to do. What I would want to do is hibernate in a posh hotel for two or three weeks and order room service, or go out for steaks, and maybe go shopping for a brand new posh laptop while the crew comes to fix the shit in the house and pick up our new cars. And buy us a new fucking espresso machine. Because even if I was rich, I wouldn’t pay the current prices for a fucking cup of coffee.