chantico: (Groggy)
Cottonhead is bad today. I feel like I'm looking through bottle-bottoms. Everything is a little swimmy and thick and just this side of warped. Is stayed up way too late last night because I didn't want the week to start and I'm paying the price. So sleepy. I used up my whole lunch taking a jittery nap in the break room downstairs. Every time I woke up a little, someone was watching me. It was off putting. I was put off.

I can't believe it is almost mom's birthday. January disappeared.


Happier note: playing Fallout: New Vegas. After I royally pissed off the Legion by murdering an entire garrison (seriously they are dicks this isn't a problem), quest asks me to go to their homebase and steal something. Fuck, okay, I've got Stealth Boys, I can do this.

I could not do this. Not stealthily, at least. Well. Sort of.

So I kind of killed the entire camp included Caesar. Hope as the main villain he wasn't *too* important to the rest of the game. His armor looks really sweet on me, though. I really did try to do it without all the slaughter, but every time I set foot in the tent his stupid dogs sensed me, and then he and all his guards ran outside to follow me and I only escaped by the skin of my teeth because my poor companions stayed behind and died repeatedly to keep them occupied. I salute your pain, brave companions. I'm sorry I ran away to hide, but not too sorry, because that allowed me to stage a war of attrition against not only the Caesar and his elite guard but against the game itself, which I guess didn't expect em to waltz in at level 21 and try to kill *everyone*, because it kept crashing. Whatever. Sneak and Snipe wins the day again, and I sang a victory song while seated in Caesar's throne. LONG LIVE THE KING.


There was a backload of laundry I took care of this weekend. Struggling through the drifts of dirty clothes, I scooped up everything in sight that looked spotty, not realizing my mistake until I pulled a long, black sweater out of the dryer. Poor J looks up from his videogame to see me wearing it, tears in my eyes. "What's wrong?"

"I didn't mean to wash it!" I blubber.

"Did it shrink?" Head shaking. "Did it tear?"

I've been avoiding washing it for over a year, because a some point, Ralphie made a little nest of it, and it had been covered in his fur. Even if it kept me from wearing the sweater, I didn't want to erase that last marker of his physical presence. I miss him so much. This is my first real experience with grief--- those dead I have known were just *done*, or we weren't close, or they were in so much pain it was a relief. Sometimes I feel guilty I'm mourning Ralph more than I have mourned any of my grandparents. I think they would have been sad to know that.


A little bit of emotional whiplash in this post.


chantico: (Default)

May 2014

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