Sight Unseen, or, Hamlet's Nutshell

Yeah, I'm playing with words again.

Good day in Salinas...I didn't have to work the counter, or, I should say, I went into the situation hellbent on not working the counter/showroom and therefore avoided it.

Scheduled to work tomorrow because it's the only day that I can catch up (I'm not allowed keys to the building, despite saving it on numerous occasions) with the manager there, and therefore have to cancel therapy. The canceling of therapy makes me EXTREMELY ANGRY. I already have losers for employees and then have to pay even more through the nose by doing their work for them after a 60-70 hour workweek by having to come in on a Saturday.

Getting tired of "making the effort." I'm getting angry and not caring who I show it to, either. (Skipping therapy, therefore, is a ROTTEN sacrifice to make.) This evening on the way home from Salinas I stopped in Palo Alto for dinner at NOLA's and was behind a line of stopped cars and got rubbed by a person who passed me to do a U-turn in an intersection and made contact with my car when she backed up to correct. "I'm so sorry...you were in my blind spot." Which blind spot was that? The one she passed to make the U-turn? Or the car-length one behind her when she had to use the full width of the street to take a parking space that should be taken travelling in the opposite direction? Sadly, yours truly unleashed on her, referring to colorful synonyms for bodily fluids, functions, and Fathers in Heaven.

I have become an animal.

OVER A CAR THAT IS NOT EVEN MINE.

I went to dinner and didn't taste it, and then went back to Sunnyvale to see the old neighborhood...the Starbucks where I used to write on Washington and Mary, the route along Washington where I used to run...the house with the fancy new windows with stuffed animals in them, ivy ground cover, the Catholic school. Another meltdown. These are getting tiresome. I rip the heads off of strangers like gingerbread men and my nutshell of infinite space is carpeted with a work uniform and my normal routine now is to sit or hide somewhere and sob like the youngest daughter in the movie "The Patriot." I'm absolutely positive that this process is no fun to read, either.

Channeling my mother...

This has to get better...

Right, Mom?

Queen Anne's Lace?

Mom?