Before Project Mayhem, before fight club, before Marla, before Tyler — there is still one sad sack of shit.
.
.
The hard part about work trips isn't making the plane or seeing another family of five burnt into their leather seats. It's missing support groups.
See, if you're lucky, the company will send you out to a major city. Cities are great. A little advanced work to find a slightly below average church or library, you're set each night you're there.
It's a bit of novelty, getting to be a new face all at once. People assume you've just been diagnosed. It's never the failed treatments, the degradation of their life and everyone in it, the continuous experience of knowingly dying — none of those things are the worst thing that happens to you.
It's finding out they will.
So people cry. They crowd around, I sob like I've been told I've got stage four colon cancer and three weeks to live. We all cry. I sleep soundly on the plane back or in the nice, four star hotel my company provides me.
Flying out to a small town, though. I'll be awake enough to be hallucinating by the time I get back for Remaining Men Together. The only mercy is that the next time I show for all the groups I missed, I can see who thought I died. I get to be resurrected.
The other part about small towns, you have to take a second, shitter plane to a local airfield, or you have to take a rental car. One of the most popular rental cars available right now, it'll light itself on fire if you use the cruise control at the wrong time. I know this because I sat next to another guy with my job, who worked for a different company, and he said I'll show you mine if you show me yours. So I told him about the faulty airbags, and he told me about the overheating switch.
I prefer to avoid driving.
All the rental place at the airport has left for me, it's one of those flaming cars. I use cruise control. If I don't, one of my narcoleptic spells will send me into the Jersey barrier.
When you drive into these small towns, you have to try to pay attention, or you'll end up a county over talking about the wrong wreck. They're otherwise interchangeable, but the miles on your rental car won't line up and those are the type of records that might get pulled out when the company is finally sued for the big one ten years down the line.
As a result, I see the same decor on the way in every time. Meth lab. Abandoned homes. Garbage fire. Classic Americana. There is no four star hotel here; I sleep the same.
The only reason I've been brought out here is because the poor shithead who drove his truck into the ditch drunk was driving my company's flagship vehicle. It loses power steering if the car jostles the right way going above 55 miles per hour. I've been told to keep track of potential incidents and make sure the company can firmly claim it's not at fault.
We've had this problem for decades, and we will for many more. Sometimes, everything is falling apart.
The job is simple, and I only get tempted by the town's blatant opioid addiction for a day and night. Painkillers would probably make me sleep. The thing about being a recall campaign organizer, though, is like recognizes like. It's not only other Compliance and Liability guys who tell you company secrets while sharing the aisle in business class.
When I'm finally back in my own town, after my own support groups, after crying my eyes out into Bob's meaty middle — I pick up my mail. There's the newest IKEA magazine. Half of it looks like shit. The type of thing you'd only see in some curated art deco, modernist, post-modern traditionalist bohemian minimalist apartment.
I have to have it.
I go to sleep, hard, like God himself tucked me in. I sleep with my wallet net four hundred heavier, because even an IKEA spree tends not to outweigh a work trip. I sleep, with my called in IKEA goods only two short weeks away, my job well done, and I know, my life is complete.
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Friendly reminder that Kawaii/Lolita/Gyaru/Fairy Kei/Decora/Cyber core & etc are all forms of dressing “Alt” or “alternative” aswell
Alt isn’t just goth/emo/grunge/scene/pastel goth. ෆ ໒꒰ྀི *' ᵕ '* ꒱ྀི
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OKAY I AM DYING BECAUSE I JUST HAD MY FIRST KISS AND I DON’T CARE IF NOBODY SEES THIS IT WAS DURING A CAST PARTY FOR A SHOW THAT I WASN’T IN BUT SHE WAS REALLY HOT AND PRETTY AND WE ARE ENGAGED AND ALL AND SHE ASKED IF I’D EVER KISSED SOMEONE BEFORE AND THEN SHE ASKED IF I WAS OKAY IF SHE WAS MY FIRST KISS AND AAAAAA AND IT WAS LIKE 12:08 IN THE PARKING LOT OF A DAIRY WUEEN AND I AM NOW OFFICIALLY LIVING MY TEENAGE COMING OF AGE MOVIE STORY LIFE GO AWAY I’M SCREAMING-
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I do again hopefully think the (sparse - I need to do it more frequently) pots exercises have been helping
Today's resting heart rate standing was 80-96 bpm, with no compression stockings on, AND after dancing/walking for an hour (which would've raised it)! Wooh!!!!
Also. I got to dance!!!! For an hour!!!!
I did have some fatigue for most of the day so like by no means were things perfect. But getting to dance without collapsing after was hype!! I missed ittttt
Also the heart rate is a nice thing to see within normal range without compression stockings. I'm hoping that does genuinely mean something I'm doing lately is actually significantly helping (maybe the pots exercise particularly the strength training, maybe the orllissa, maybe the saltsticks whenever i feel tired or dizzy etc).
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