Friday, June 15, 2012
Well, hi there, Residual Anger. I thought you'd left town.
It took me a while. But I figured it out. After a litany of "Fuck this, fuck that, why do always have the worst timing when buying or selling a house, and why is my computer so slow, and why when I think I'm so organized, can't I find the piece of paper I'm looking for, and why do I have so much stuff, and why are cat litter and cat food so expensive," and...whine, whine, whine until I realized that I don't really hate the potential buyer of my house, or her real estate agent, or Apple Computer, or my cat, or the whole wide world.
What I have here, I think, is a bit of leftover anger at Mr. Ex--who was essentially responsible for the first of my two moves in this past five years. There was that lovely Sunday afternoon conversation in July of 2007. The "our marriage is over--I'm in love with someone else and we're getting married--and we'd like raise our new family in this house" conversation. Because she'd already slept in my house--probably in my bed--I was pretty damn fine with leaving it all behind since I figured I'd end up in prison if I burned the place to the ground. But yeah, moving is a lot of work, and I think I was wallowing in a little resentment last night. And okay, I'm wallowing now too. But I think I'm almost done. Yeah. Thanks, blogosphere, for letting me disburse that anger. Whew.
And who knows, maybe there'll be a little more. I've told Mr. Residual Anger to pack his bags, but he's standing there with his hands on his hips staring me down.
photo credit: cityofheroes.wikia.com