Last week I received a text from an unknown number telling me to check my mail box.
I had just finished work, so I couldn’t skip a few metres down my driveway and have a look-see. The mystery tucked away in my mail box meant for a terrible drive home. I rocked back and forth in my seat, wailing and attempting Sherlock-esque deductions. I scrutinised that one singular text, who its sender could be, and what that exclamation mark meant and WHY AREN’T THEY REPLYING TO MY TEXT ASKING WHO THEY ARE.
I also got Subway, which it was pretty sweet.
Lo! The mail box revealed a note attached to a wee chocolate owl. The owl found its home in my belly, but the note I keep here on my wall because it makes me smile.
“THEN HOW COME THERE ARE TWO NOTES, HUH”
That is because I am a liar. The truth is that this has actually been happening over the last few weeks, and I am just a lazy blogger. In fact, a third note was delivered after I took the above photo. HOW SPECIAL AM I. Every time there’d be a text from the same unknown number, saying “Mailbox!”. That’s all. Not one hint as to their identity!
Last week my chocolate was a green frog. :3
Maybe one day they’ll betray me and deliver anthrax and bombs instead of cute notes and chocolate. In spite of that, I have to admit going to such lengths to assassinate me is so flattering that I don’t mind. It’s rather sweet of them~
Coast down driveway thinking, “THIS WAS THE BEST DECISION EVER MADE.” Turn onto the road and feel like I’m gliding. Want to go really really fast but legs won’t keep up. Thighs start to ache. Remember that cycling is a legitimate form of exercise. Why must something this much fun involve hard work/sweatiness.
Decide that I have now gone halfway. Pull off to side of road. Put feet on ground. Briefly fear that legs may not let me stand up as they’re now made of jelly.
Stare down road and watch the setting sun sink behind mountains. Wonder what superpowers I had as a kid that made biking around the farm so effortless. Is this what I get for getting taller, older, and addicted to the internet. (Yes.)
Turn around. Struggle my way home again, occasionally stopping because whoops my thighs have caught on fire. Oh no, wait, just unfit. Hope neighbours aren’t peeking out their windows and laughing at the cute fat girl on her retro bike.
Walk up driveway because it’s a gentle slope upwards this time and NOPE NOPE NOPE. Stagger inside on wobbly legs. Phew.
(I’m quite in love with my new bike.)
- The easter bunny left an origami surprise outside my door on Good Friday. :3 I still have not eaten its contents (never have I been so virtuous).
- It’s not even winter yet and rats are already scampering around in the ceiling. While we have that problem every winter (eughhh!), they’ve also gotten into the cows’ winter feed… something I don’t think has ever been a problem before. Looks like Blackberry was actually quite useful. Aww, cat.
- The novelty of having a job hasn’t yet worn off. Plus I got this SWEET BADGE.
- There’s an anonymous person who occasionally googles for my site and includes a message for me to see on my web analytics. It’s so adorable (also wooo secret messages!), and I just want to say: I have no idea who you are, but your support means a lot and I think you’re super cool. Thank you. <3
This post was mostly just to get back into the swing of regular posting, hurrrr. Bye, March! It’s scary we’re about to delve into April already.
For the past few days I’ve been a good neighbour – ’tis a nice change from my default selfish and lazy state of being! I’ve even decided that YES HELPING OUT YOUR NEIGHBOURS IS KEY TO BEING A GOOD PERSON. The neighbour in question is a substitute teacher at my old high school and I’ve been feeding her highlighter orange canaries (edit because of the comments: I’ve been feeding them for her… not to her. The canaries are safe!). I forgot this fact until I saw her in person for the first time in years. I WAS NOT PREPARED FOR THE NOSTALGIA. For the long weekend she went to a vintage car show so her husband could dress up in period costume and show off his (beige!) car with fellow car bores.
They live in an old shed and all the fluff from discarded dandelions pad the floor. The canaries, that is. Not my neighbours. Picking dandelions sounds like something princesses do in the beginning of their fairy tales. It’s not. Or at least, I can’t imagine any Disney princess crawling across a paddock on their knees with a blue ice cream container. On top of this it takes an hour to get enough and I come home with hands sticky and green. When I close my eyes I can see dandelions hiding between blades of grass.
Woe, how hard work is~
With my neighbours away the house was patrolled by their stocky ginger cat. Named Ginger. I know, right. He has a giant puffball of a head, and rich orange stripes curling around his tail like markings on a snake. He’d watch me pick my dandelions and wowl at me for no reason. As much as I’d encourage him to come over, he’d keep his distance and continue meowing. I’m pretty helpless whenever confronted by Ginger, unused to talkative cats as I am. I’d keep telling him (in stupid baby voice), “Noo, I can’t let you inside! I can’t feed you birds! Your owners are coming back in just a few hours, don’t worry! And noooo, I can’t feed you! I am patting you! WHAT IS THE PROBLEM. WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME“.
I came home appreciating that Blackberry’s face is so expressive that she doesn’t ever need her voice box. Sweet little dainty cat~ I don’t think she had any clue I was just feeding birds she’d never be able to eat. :3
I do this job seeking thing half-heartedly every so often, usually starting the summer with a pledge not to waste it only to fall victim to a relaxing holiday. As I recall, the only times I’ve actually sent away a job application and CV to an unfortunate employer was when the crazies were at my worst, when I couldn’t see myself improving, hated being a slug and resolved to work until all my energy gave out (ie 2-3 days) and hoped that by then I’d have figured out a legit suicide method (hooray!). Of course after a couple of days I’d wrestle myself over to a doctor and ~give life another shot~.
(Being a crazy person isn’t fun times! Who would have guessed.)
But this time I’m looking for a job for real, and two years of being a hikikomori has left me with no recent work experience. No accomplishments either, no references, and my CV has a black hole where the last 2 years should have been. Yes! Hire the person with a tendency to regularly flip out and go NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE and curl into bed and stop moving for weeks at a time – somebody has to, okay. ;__; After all, I have student loans from the last two years with nothing to show for it … it’s a tad daunting when I just want to buy dolls and Amanda Palmer tickets guilt-free.
This is now the plan instead of university: working full-time until I’m certain I can handle my studies again. In fact I haven’t been doing the uni thing for about a month now (WHAT’S NEW AMIRITE), because my brain on citalopram is mush. HURRRR I HAVE NO SMARTZ ANYMORE, but at least I only occasionally want to bury away in bed forever (hooray again!).
And so today I filled out job applications and ticked boxes that proudly declared me to be free of criminal convictions. “They are so going to want to hire me now”, I thought without even a little sarcasm as I met those minimum requirements. I mean, I’m a NZ citizen and everything. I totally have the advantage over an ex-con or a tourist, right? HIRE MEEE afsdhgjhjfdsd hi.
QUALITY POST IS QUALITY