Wednesday, June 22, 2011


I seem to have the writing bug a little bit in hand now. I think with my new, steadily refining schedule I’m getting a bit more on the ball, so to speak. Plus all of the free coffee from work is very helpful. The emotions are still a little outta whack in the morning but I feel much better today. I think I had to get all of that out. I don’t feel so lonely at the moment. I think God is using that loneliness, actually, to propel me even further into work. I’ve gotten into the groove there, and I’m pretty good at most things and I love everyone there. Even Old Terror (who gets worse steadily) has become mentally manageable, even enjoyable to an extent. At least she provides good stories.

Example: last night I was changing one lady and my Sardonic coworker comes to tell me that we’re going to attempt Old Terror together in a few minutes and my company was requested. I got over there five minutes later, after whatever had happened had ended (they said later that OT was fighting with her neighbor and going through his stuff), only to find Sardonic standing a few feet away from OT’s bed, cautiously.

Him: “False alarm, she got in bed by herself. Finally.”
We look back at OT. OT gets this creepy, faux-sweet granny smile and pulls her covers up to her chin and says in this low sing-song voice to him:
“Why don’t you come over HERRE?” HAHAHA.
Him: “No… no I don’t think so."
I suspect that she was either planning on striking him the moment he succumbed OR flashing him. Maybe both.

I’ve also grown really attached to one of my other coworkers, this tiny, tough girl who has worked these kinds of jobs since she was sixteen or so. She’s very good with the residents and has this amazing work ethic but this really hard life, riddled with many family problems and health issues (and more health issues and more health issues) and relationship issues. She often comes to work crying but she’s tireless. She’s also a huge smoker so I will go outside with her at various points in the evening and look at the stars and occasionally smoke one or two with her and listen to her talk about her life, which I think she appreciates. I often find that this is one quality that I can offer people, a spare ear. Or some way of phrasing that which doesn’t imply I literally have an extra ear. She’s like an old lady in the way that she speaks at times—“hork” (the first time I’ve heard this one—it means to vomit. Interesting), “crabby patties,” “dear/dearie,” “sweetheart,” and “tushy” are all words she uses regularly. Whenever she comes to find me to go out to smoke she says “Come on, let’s go have our smoky treat!” And yet, she works it. She’s very genuine. Her life reeks of white trash, by her own admission, but she’s such a loving person that one cannot help but want to squeeze her.

Oh dear. My life has now become my work. And what a weird work.

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