The other day I had a conversation with my flatmate all about work. And she was all “Um… so I just want to double check that you know not to put anything about work on your blog?”
I laughed, and told her that I knew (I mean, hello, who hasn’t read Dooce?) and that “I do have boundaries!”
Then I logged onto here and saw the post all about me vomiting pink. And the open discussion about depression… Perhaps I should reword that… I do have SOME boundaries. Flimsy boundaries. Made of string and cardboard. Mostly constructed to make sure I’m not all ‘fired’ and ‘unemployed’.
(Is there a nastier word in the english language than unemployed? I think not. It doesn’t roll off the tongue. It falls. Like a wad of snot.)
In other news I’ve just come home to find one of the neighbours cats on our doorstep begging for some love. Technically s/he isn’t allowed into our house, but I have a bargain with Sir or Lady Lancelot. (Yes. I named the cat.)
(It’s hard to have a good one-sided conversation with a nameless cat.)
(‘You’re so pretty yes you are! Yes you are Lancelot. Aren’t you so pretty?! With all your long fur! You love a good ear rub don’t you! I know you do, look at all that purry drool! You’re in kitty heaven right now. Aren’t you pretty cat? Aren’t you Lancelot? Yes you are!’)
(Sorry. I couldn’t help it. I got stuck in baby-talk mode.)
Anywho… My bargain is this. S/he’s allowed inside up to the third step, so long as S/he is sitting on me. And I’m allowed to pat Lancelot’s ears until he drools and falls into a happy trance. So yeah. It’s really not like s/he is getting the hard end of the bargain -I think it’s mutually beneficial.
Anyway. I’m going to hit the hay because: EXHAUSTED. Work has been very busy and worrisome lately, and that makes me tired and hibernate-y. Huh. Maybe I don’t have any boundaries at all?