Mlaaaah! Complaining!

My apartment is a disaster zone. My incomplete (but beautiful) bed teeters precariously on its back. Tools are thrown haphazardly across the floor. My new mattress and accompanying pile of birch slats takes up half the bedroom. Kitties are rampaging in all directions, eating gift plants from RH and batting tools and essential pieces of hardware into unknown nooks and crannies. My kitchen sink is full of dishes I haven't gotten around to doing. New linens, pillows, and a voluminous down comforter and duvet are piled in a nest on the futon that is now my couch, as I had to sleep there last night. A series of mistakes culminated in a late night foray to K-Mart, which was one minute from closing, for bigger wood screws. My mom and I arrived back at my place in high spirits and renewed enthusiasm after an evening of arguing, only to discover that the f*cking screws weren't in the bag.

I was late all morning, and I'm starving and sleepy. I have ten thousand things to do - graphic design for the dance team, projects at work, grocery shopping, cleaning - and Inga is doing a samba lesson tonight. I have to wrestle with that damn bed even further in order to get it finished, and I'm so glad that the process involves drilling holes into it. I'm feeling destructive.

I want to get my apartment clean... And my bed finished. I don't want to go to dance, and I'm just so driven to excel that the guilt of not wanting to go is almost overwhelming. I want to cry on somebody's shoulder and get their shirt all snotty and teary and not care.

I, I, I. Damn me. I'm reading over this post and laughing with derision and self-mocking. It stays, as a monument to my retardedness. Maybe in the future it will remind me not to get so worked up over trivial bullshit.

Edit: My coworker just came in and told me my face looks puffy. I am going to strangle somebody. Why can't I teach myself my own lesson?