In Which My Blisters Refuse to Burst

I'm okay with not having a shoe filled with pus. There are two blisters. One is small, on the ball of my left foot. I can put weight on it,but its still a little sore when I poke at it. The other one is a little bigger than a JFK half dollar, and filled with a liquid that makes me irresistible to the opposite sex (not really). I'm scared to put any weight on it, out of fear I'll burst it and my shoe will fill with pus. I've said pus a lot just mow. Pus is an inaccurate term, I have no idea what's actually in blisters. Let's ask Google. I asked Google, who in turn, asked Wikipedia: "A blister is a small pocket of fluid within the upper layers of the skin, typically caused by forceful rubbing (friction), burning, freezing, chemical exposure or infection. Most blisters are filled with a clear fluid called serum or plasma.[1] However, blisters can be filled with blood (known as blood blisters) or with pus (if they become infected)." I can't wait to evacuate some plasma. The sensation of anything against my foot feels weird, and makes me forget how to navigate on it. It causes me to use muscles that aren't used to being used in this manner. They're already sore. Everyone's getting married or engaged and it makes me feel rabid and unwanted. Especially in the cases where the couple in question has been together for less time than I've been with Matt. There's only one of those right now, but there are two cases sealing with that specific subject matter. One case hits pretty close to home: Other Matt/Matt #2 plans to propose in July. Case #2, a friend from college has been engaged for a month or two, has set a date for next May, a year from now. Needless to say, I have been drinking my feelings semi-incessantly. Needless to say, I've been shopping.

In Which I Get A Life, Break A Computer, Drink Stupid Amounts of Coffee, And Pray For The Price of Cigarettes to Fall

It's been a minute.

It's been several.

I don't even know where to begin, so I won't. It's like hitting fast forward during the talking parts on Glee, you'll have a general idea of what's going on, even if you don't hear what anybody says.

I think I smell Irish cream.

I've been offering counseling/therapy to my friends since my mid/late teens. It was definitely one of those things that I just seemed to fall into. My friends, most of whom I love dearly, seem to have assembled the most crackpot team of problems. My latest case involves a 23 year old with her own set of prescriptions and issues taking on a relationship with a 28 year old suicidal bipolar divorcee (divorcee is a kind term because the paperwork hasn't been pushed though on the divorce). I wish I was making this up. Did I mention he's into BDSM? And that he lives at home? Any of these factors on their own would have been perfectly fine, but here they are combining into the perfect shitstorm. My friend stays, even though she knows she should have bounced a long time ago. Nobody wants anything to do with him, and I do not blame them. He's emotionally abusive, manipulative, has a conviction for hitting his notquiteex-wife, and I have nothing nice to say or believe about him. The best part of believe is the lie, yo.

My face and palm meet daily after the latest weekend update.

I tell her what she needs to hear, and I don't sugarcoat my feelings anymore. I made it explicitly clear that I am not allowed to meet him, because I will not be polite. Instead of a handshake, he will get a square, solid kick in the taint. I don't pull punches. I am too old for bullshit. Well, other people's bullshit. Still working with my own.

Still working with lingering long island hangovers, calluses on my toes, cancelled/sold out concerts, black roots, and a severe lack of left hand oriented jewelry.

The Marshall Mathers LP always makes me nostalgic.

Work is more consistent. Benefits are not.

I like donuts.