Why Me (with jokes!)

It’s amazing how you can imagine so many things going well, and even when some of those things happen, they happen in such a way that makes you hate life a little more. Been a soul-sucking couple weeks in Fargo. We are so close to the finish line, but it has never seemed so far away.

1.     Fiance got a verbal job offer. What does it pay? No idea until “HR gets back to me.” When does it start? “Sometime next week.” When will we have anything in writing for this job that starts next week? Who the fuck knows.

2.     So we have an apartment to move into, movers ready, we’re a bit past the point of no return, yet still have no fucking clue what fiancé will be making, which makes it exceedingly difficult for me to fully assess the “I can leave my job and we’ll be fine with whatever I find in the cities” vs. “I might need to stay in Fargo to chop off a bit more of my soul until things settle down.” Or, they let me do my job with a computer and phone from the cities for a while.

3.     Guess my parents still don’t understand why we are moving, why we are getting married in the cities as opposed to my hometown despite our having told them several times how unhappy I am here and that we haven’t lived in our hometowns for more than 10 years. They seem to think that I should be grateful to have a job at all and just stick it out and be miserable for the next 30 years. Beyond that, they seem to feel I’m making a mistake getting married, since they don’t see us as a couple. As long as their son has a job, fiancé can remain unemployed and we can slowly sink further into debt and depression. My dad has called me twice because he “worries about us.” And is now talking to one of our friends about his concerns.

4.     My car is near the end of its 150000 lifespan, and has little metal bits that may be making their way through the engine like a mechanical sickle cell disease. Can’t do much about it until we both are securely employed. Still owe parents a few thousand on it.

5.     House continues to sit around, and just mild interest from time to time. Don’t know how I can escape until that’s taken care of.

Here’s how all this feels. I’m like that guy in a Mrs. Butterworth’s commercial, with this steaming pile of buttery pancakes sitting in front of me bathed in a ray of morning sunshine. I reach for the syrup, but Mrs. Butterworth starts screaming at me and stabbing my hand with a fork. Meanwhile, the Pillsbury Doughboy ninja jumps onto my back and lassos his scarf around my neck to start choking me. Butterworth pins my hands to the table with a knife and holds the pancakes just out of reach as I suffocate. The bitch.