Money’s about to get funny again. Rent and bills ate a large chunk of the cushion. I’ll have to see if I can find more people to freelance for if the hours get stupider than they are now. Or maybe I’ll be able to convince them to let me take care of the nitpicky details that no one else can—I’m the only one who can get behind some of the chests of drawers, being thin as I am.
…I feel a little silly using the term ‘thin’ when I weigh 148.6 lbs. I gotta get out of that mindset. It’s like my grandmother’s haunting me, calling me fat and hiding the food again. I should eat a peanut butter and sugar sandwich to spite her efforts to get me back down to a svelte 80 lbs.
Wait, what? No. Screw that. No. You don’t own me, judgmental memory of a madwoman. Go away. I might not be light but I’m still thin. Begone.
I’m getting ready to turn in, and plotting a trip to the vintage music stores in the area when some speed in the business comes up again at the same time. My tastes are getting even further underground than they were before, and so I’m going to have to actually go digging for things. I need something edgy, something dark. Preferably with borderline shoegazing in its guitar riffs and some metal. (…combining both of those in the same artist/group would be EPIC.) I’ve got a couple of leads, but—alas and alack—no money to spare yet.
I’m also actively saving money for the Distant Worlds concerts. I have enough technically now, but I’m more worried about making sure hell doesn’t break loose with the apartment than getting a jump on. I’ll worry when the concert’s Facebook feed says “Hey, we’re running low on tickets, so call Powell Symphony Hall Like NAO.”
I’d best slide under my blankets and go to sleep right now. Getting ridiculously sleepy, and falling asleep with a laptop on one’s stomach is not the brightest of ideas. Especially when the floor is made of, like, hospital linoleum.