fahrenheit

I've made peace with unemployment; one part Aristotelian stoicism; two parts Summer Olympics and being able to watch all the coverage; three parts Wimbledon starting tomorrow. Also I won't have to spend £95 on a monthly travel. I do feel positive for September but I never knew the stress and ulcers that can be caused for being a citizen of the world. I didn't think of myself as the 'corporate ladder' girl or even a career seeking but as soon as it's quickly stripped away, it just became insanely Joni Mitchell.

And now I'm staring at my room sideways, alone, in pjs, and was scrolling through past pictures on Facebook of my old elementary school, being annoyingly nostalgic, cold hands which are causing frustrating typos, on tip toes trying to play vinyl, next trying to figure out Chris' demented turn-table that evidently can start automatically itself, listening to the Black Lips, have spoken with my mother already twice this weekend. Once during job hell, other during hell of my own creation. i.e. Friday afternoon, fire alarm goes off whilst I am playing Pez via Wii internet thingy on Maria Kart. Alarm has now been buzzing for about 7 minutes, Chris' mum calls and I speak with her whilst juggling Wii remote and race. Decide that I should maybe investigate this alarm, open my flat door and see half my flatblock running outside, panic, swear, throw on my shoes, start searching for my bloody keys, which are of course hidden under paper (bureaucratic nightmare), grab my phone, run on to our outdoor hallway balcony, I start shaking. Go to the door to run down the stairs, smoke then billows out, and I'm stuck. I see people on the upper deck, completely unphased, I call Chris, he's nearly home. There are 4 fire brigades, an ambulance and countless police cars blocking off the street. Chris arrives, tells me to go down the fire escape (I clearly lose all logic when it comes to a crisis...), then we chat with our neighbour, I see I left our kitchen window open (fire 101, elementary school fire drills: 1st tip- close the windows), panic. We grab a drink at our old man pub across the road, Broadway market crazy comes and sits at our table, when then accuses Chris of thinking she was trying to steal his bag because he moved seats to sit next to me, I calm her down, the fill her mobile phone with a paper voucher, drink a white wine, leave one sip, for Broadway market crazy to ask if she can have it, I oblige, she then spits it back into the glass saying it's the worst thing she's ever tasted (doubt to be true).

Then for the rest of the weekend, I've been milking sympathy and just attention-seeking, reminiscing to Chris 'how I died in a fire'. Supremely lucid thoughts are penetrating through now. I think this two month gap is where both of our dreams can come true; lots of editing.