04/30/20: Another Day Another Dollar

I don’t feel motivated to write creatively today, so I’ll settle for a summation of my day. I started the day like all others: a crawl out of bed, a plugging-in of vape and phone, and a lunch made in my new lunchbox. I made coffee to-go and drove to the FedEx warehouse in Fife. Today they asked me to deliver packages on Vashon Island, so I did as I was told. I got some good exercise in: one of my stops didn’t actually have a road, and the house was half a mile from the nearest parking lot. I ran the whole thing and it was very pretty out. My lungs didn’t agree. Small sand-scathed beach houses lined my left with a small gravel path only big enough to cater to a golf cart and an open beach to my right. The sun was behind the houses but still over the hill, and the beach slithered and wound like a plucked curly hair. I saw a man in a golf cart, and thought about asking him for a lift, but I find most people to be unapproachable and he looked like he didn’t enjoy his job, best not add to it. After this the day was smooth sailing, though I was drenched in sweat and probably stinky. I made the 5pm ferry back to Point Defiance and drove back to the warehouse. On the same ferry was a girl who I had never met who works for the same FedEx contractor as me. I tried to sneak up on her on the ferry: I got out of my van and did a peek-a-boo on her passenger side window. She had her head rested on the steering wheel: it had been a long day. We met at the warehouse half an hour later and I told her of this. She laughed, and we talked for 15 minutes or so. Mel, a Tennessee native now Bonney Lake resident is in her late twenties, has been through rehab, and is working on getting certified in behavioral therapy to help autistic kids feel better about themselves and the world around them. She was very friendly, as I think she (like many others in this work) recognizes that we all work the same shitty job. It’s a sort of pack mentality here: everyone hates it, together. After this brief interaction I drove home, ate leftover Chinese food with chopsticks, took a shower, and now I’m writing. I hoped to make another “exercise in imagery” today, but I’m just not feeling it.

I wrote “Snow” because I can feel myself slipping with each passing day. I crave consistency but it depresses me. I crave excitement but it stresses me out. I want to be consistently excited? I don’t know. I have ups and downs too spread out to be akin to bipolar depression. At least I think, I don’t know much about mental illness, I just know I’ve just enough of it to keep me on my toes. I’ll have a week or two weeks where I feel on top of the world, and then a week or two weeks or a month or several where I feel down. I haven’t planned my death in at least a week which is a good thing, though I can feel it coming again. In the wise words or Ry Downey, “Don’t worry, I’m too much of a pussy to kill myself.” I have a deep seated human fear of the unknown, and I have no faith so I can’t answer for what happens after we die.

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