Twenty-three

Attempt no. x. I have blocked my favorite slash sites. While slash itself is not to blame for my destructive binges of vegetative procrastination comas, it is my trigger. I remain dubious about my chances of success; my track record is not encouraging. Must replace slash with other, less addictive, pastimes. My apartment still needs a lot of work. My entire life needs a lot of work. 

This must be how drug addicts feel, but the watered down version. 

Twenty-two

Summary of recent events:

• I got promoted to acting manager with no salary raise until the end of the year
• I got pissed off when I discovered that the previous manager – who was utterly incompetent and a complete bitch – got the position by being unsurprisingly bitchy AND had a significantly higher salary, one that she didn't deserve for the crap work she delivered
• I updated my CV and started secretly looking for work elsewhere in an act of true passive aggressiveness
• I cooled off and stopped the job search, but decided to start working under the table editing CVs to make extra income. My first client is a hot older Dutchman, I'll be meeting him soon
• I got asked out by a client on a date; I told him I'd be willing to give dating a go after we've gotten to know each other better as friends. He proceeded to bombard me with sickeningly cute whatsapp messages and needy phone calls at random times of the day. I freaked out and cut off contact. I need to call him and let him know it's not going to work out. Procrastination and avoidance commence
• I took my mom to a Julio Iglesias concert and enjoyed a lovely summer evening of mother-daughter bonding to a backdrop of mermaid-like backup singers and a charming old fox crooning songs I'm not interested in, in a language I don’t understand
• I went broke after renewing my car insurance, car license and driving license. Decided to embrace frugal living. Bought a handful of plain hairbands for over 7 euros last night after going out for overpriced milkshakes and French fries with a new coworker at an upscale café
• Lost my Blackberry, and my work phone's battery is almost dead and I don't have a charger for it. I suspect that someone might be coming into my apartment when I'm not around and either taking things or leaving trash, but then again it might be my paranoia after an American friend of mine told me the CIA used to go into his home when he wasn't around and leave signs as warnings  

Twenty-One

A few weeks ago a couple of friends and I went off on a road trip to check some of the world's oldest mosaics. We ended up on a hill overlooking the beach, stuffing our faces with pastries, comparing memories, and staring at an impossibly full night sky. The museum we'd been heading to was closed. The only thing keeping us company aside from the stars were two security gaurds sitting in the distance and probably wondering what the fuck we were doing parked in the middle of no where.

It was great.

Those two friends will be leaving the country soon. Having trouble finding jobs. And it sucks because I don't often meet people that I enjoy hanging out with. So now I make the most of my time with them, help them polish their CVs, lend an ear when they need to rant and consult, and count down the days until they become 'internet buddies'.

Twenty

Today a client sent an email to a senior coworker complaining that the profile I'd written them was "very weak". First time for everything. But then, I'm not surprised given how I'd been really sloppy with these guys. And I can't bring myself to care. The first sign of disaster. I've also been letting other deadlines and tasks slide; not a smart move if I don't want to ruin the trust and reputation I've made for myself, but I seriously, seriously can't bring myself to care. There's no panic, no anxiety, no gut-wrenching urge to "fix it" and control the damage. What does that mean?

I need a vacation. A long, preferably permanent, paid vacation. So sick and tired of working.

The only highlight is that the flat mate is still with me because she's too fugly and psychotic to be loved by anyone else. As my 5-year-old niece put it the other day: "She's a nice cat, but she's like a killer or something." I think she was just minding my feelings with the "nice" bit.