Extraordinary stories from everyday life.


the best thing about us is the people we know.

Rockbound Road // Monday, 8.45pm

Maybe I'm overreacting. (Ha.) Then again, I might not be. Anyway, what does one do except write about it? So one can look back later and be like,"That's how all that shook out." It's quality entertainment anyway, I hope.

It's that time again, folks...time for yours truly to entertain you with what may prove an annual existential breakdown regarding the future of this project, occasioned by the inexorable force wielded by the want of time, money, and sufficient foresight.

One month shy of my inaugural "Is this the end already?" freakout, I'm having another.

I've been waiting for my car registration to arrive from my parents' house (where all my mail is directed) to my current address. Today, it finally did. Only it wasn't registration at all, but a notice of need to re-register as salvage. The General, you see, was declared a total loss by the other party's insurance agency after my Los Angeles accident last September 4.

The irony scintillates. Even though he's been running sweet as a nut, especially since the tune-up Niko gave him last spring, and even though I had the oil changed only two days ago on Hooksett Road and they complimented me on his fine preservation...there you are. The law views him as a wreck and needs him inspected.

And it seems they can only inspect him in California.

I wouldn't mind so much, except this is the DMV we're talking about. The California DMV. The only bureaucracy worse than this, more cold of heart and iron of fist, that I've encountered, is the ConEd service center on Nevins Street in Brooklyn.

So the idea of trying to explain to someone there that I am currently in New Hampshire, and making liberal use of the word "how" in the effort to answer their needs, is less than hope-inspiring. I can hear them now, telling me "Then you can't use the car legally."

I mean...I don't know. I've never dealt with this before. Maybe there's a way, and maybe they'll be willing to impart it to me.

But for now, I just feel ferklempt. I could swear a blue streak about it, but I'm not even that angry...not really. I'm just annoyed as fuck.

It's funny, isn't it, how going through things the second or third or fourth time doesn't always smooth and pacify the passage, the way you think it ought to. Instead, it's just annoying as fuck. I said so yesterday, regarding the low estate of my bank account, and I'm saying it again now.

I'd like very much to get past that. To grow in grace when I go through things like this, rather than get all fist-balled-up about it.

Am I mad at God? I might be. I just don't want to be distracted by these things...by money and bureaucracy and the complicated political dance it takes to be a free adult in this world. I just want to live, and write, and give to people. I'm not a hippie or a romantic; I'm just greedy of time to do what I want.

And once again, I'm wondering "Am I doing the wrong thing? Is all this a sign that I'm doing it all wrong?" And I don't feel very nice toward God, not very friendly or thinking the best of him. No matter that I had a great conversation with Tim today and was only a few hours ago praising God for how he listens to my requests.

I don't like myself at all, and I'd frankly like to be shed of it. Clearly I'm not good enough for this job, as much as I want it. I'm not a good enough writer or worker or Christian or optimist. I'm a lazy, whinging, entitled white suburban princess who, even at the age of 30, still thinks she ought to be paid for her sheer potential.

Fuck myself, for once.