Week 1 of marathon training, completed.
Counted all of my change (I always worry that the bank will rip me off if I don’t count it beforehand): $197.72. Looks like I get those new bookshelves I’ve wanted forever.
I’ve been setting the ultimate mousetrap for hours. I see the mouse again, I adjust the trap. It’s like playing real-life Mousetrap. I feel a tiny bit badly about it, but I can’t have a mouse living in my house. Live traps are equally cruel, and trying to poison one could hurt my dogs. There’s really no nice, humane way to get rid of it, so…enter Mousetrap.
The mammal pest issues at this house are driving me crazy. I’ve got foxes living in the barn and shed, a badger that’s dug a hole near the house, a bunch of superraccoons that weigh near 35lbs, and so many deer. I need more friends with guns and/or traps. I can’t kill things, but I don’t have a problem with hiring an assassin.
The basement is filled with spiders, and I’m creeped the fuck out, so I just never go down there (it’s unfinished, anyway). The attic is filled with wasps — yellowjackets, specifically — and there’s not much I can do (there’s no access from the main part of the house, I’m scared of heights and being stung).
I’ve been watching marathon Lost episodes for days on end, waiting out the weekend so I can start my work week again. The weekends just seem like so much…bullshit. There’s too many girls for the medium-sized club I work for to support, and competition gets a little more fierce. The guys that tend to wander in are too young, too drunk, too broke, too much of the things that are both a recipe for being completely irritated and difficult to make money off of. The place I work is an entirely different animal on weekends, and I’m just not at all the kind of girl to put myself there for it.
So, tomorrow. Back to work. It’s going to be a rough couple of weeks. Training for the marathon builds rapidly in mileage, I start back to weightlifting again, and twice as much work on top of that…sucks. I sort of feel like I’m being dragged along through those things, rather than doing them myself. Maybe that’s for the better though — they actually get done. Unlike my laundry, which I was supposed to do tonight.
I’m sick of eating tacos, cereal, and soup. Dude. I fucking strip for a living. I shouldn’t be behind on bills and eating repeat meals. I suppose two weeks of vacation didn’t really do me any favors, though.
Thinking of dyeing my hair dark again. It’s looking too washed out, the closer it gets to my natural color. A friend says to stick with the reddish hues, but I’m thinking under dark lights, dark hair might be just the change I’m looking for. In the meantime, I’ll probably dye it reddish again, and if I hate it, dye it dark.
I hate dyeing my hair, because I honestly just don’t care what color it is. I hate shaving so frequently. I hate razor burn. I don’t care if I have tan lines. I don’t care about the last fucking ten pounds I should be losing. Turns out, it’s pretty hard to keep the job if I don’t care and don’t deal with those things, though.
This mouse is driving me crazy.