Pith and Vinegar

So last night, like most nights, I was preparing to go to bed around 2am. Finished up what I was working on, and was going to shut off my monitors (I leave my computer running).

The fan in my power supply started making an odd noise.

Just as I bent over to inspect it, it started throwing sparks out the back and onto the wall.

So…. yeah. Needs fixing, but I have no money. If I’m not around as much, that’s why. I’ll be around often enough to check and respond to emails and will try to fulfil my obligations, but don’t make any plans based on my presence.

The stuff I wanted and the stuff I needed all fit nicely into my backpack.

Tomorrow is a new day.

Spoke to Jenn. The situation was misrepresented to me. Everything should be worked out quite smoothly within a short time tomorrow. Nothing to see here.

I told Jenn, like two dozen times, that she’s free to do whatever the hell she wants with the stuff I left at the house. Too many things. Things I don’t need. She can keep it, sell it, give it away, or throw it out. I don’t care. If I’m going to move forward, I need to quit hauling so much baggage with me. She kept giving me the wishy-washy “oh, I know you don’t feel that way, I don’t want to get rid of your things, you might want them,” etc., etc., ad nauseum.

I moved out in March 2008. In the nearly year and a half since then, I’ve gone back for things twice. Once to get a couple of movies I wanted to watch, once to get my webcam so I could use it for beta-testing Trillian Astra. In all that time, that’s all I’ve wanted.

Apparently Jenn has packed up all my stuff, and Mom agreed on my behalf that this Friday “we” are going to go over and collect all of it.

I DON’T WANT IT. I have no room for it and no desire for any of it. It is useless to me. I have what I need.

Mom’s all “well, if you can make some money from it, why not?” She doesn’t understand. It would be nice to make money, but the last thing I want to do is make money off my own pain. I need to leave it behind and get on with my life. The furthest I want to move that shit is to walk it to the curb where it can sit and rot until garbage day. If someone else wants to collect it they can feel free.

Ugh. I thought I was done with this BS. Now it looks like I’m going to be mired in it for years. Fuck me.