Ok, so I've decided to take a break from my 1/2 hour of taking my stuff out of boxes and putting it away because I hate doing these things. I feel like my life is defined by all of this crappity crap that I have accumulated over the years. Here is what my unpacking consists of: A gaggle of candles that I don't even burn, a shit ton of crappy monster stuff because I don't have the willpower to pass up anything that has a universal monster on it (even if it is the crappiest thing you can imagine), a massive amount of books on various subjects such as monsters, John Waters, serial killers, and deformed human babies, back issues of fashion magizines and Bizzare just in case I need outfit inspiration or to giggle a little bit at human suffering, we will not even comment on the clothes or the pieces with tags still on them, a super gigundous collection of body sprays, lotion, makeup (hey, I used to work at Sephora), and perfumes. I will spare you the rest of my junk descriptions because I want you to have some respect for me. Whatever, I can't even think of how many times through this moving process that people have asked me if I'm giving anything away. You people love me because I fill voids and all of you have self control. Well, fuck self control. I have more voids to fill, fuckers...
Anywho, I am really happy right now. Everything is going great and I am very satisfied that I made the decision to move in with Ezra. He has not made me want to chew his eyeballs out or stomp on his nuts, so all is well. At least I get to have more sex now, and that's always a plus. I've just been extremely busy and not been sleeping enough, so that always sucks.
Something has been making me think of Greg a lot, and I don't know why. It's been...hmmm...four months now since he died and I have pushed it out of my head and I finally think it's starting to float to the surface like a drowning victim. Good analogy, Theresa, way to be darker than the topic...so what do I do now? Fuck, do I go to therapy, or just let this shit fester? I don't know. Festering is my strong point, I keep it all in and develop headaches. That's what I do best. Arrrgh. Life sucks and your ex-boyfriend committing suicide because of you sucks even more testes.
Off I go back to unpacking, so Ezra can come home and tell me how much shit I have. Whatever, he asked me to move in, he knew what kind of feces he was getting himself into.
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