Why is it that, when you give people all the room in the world, they come a sit right fucking next to you. And then they talk on their phones or make a lot of noise or get everyone else to come sit with them so they can gossip and talk shit and have serious discussions about who bought what scarf where and when they are going to wear it. I fucking hate people. Do they not see me sitting here, all serious with my books and my coffee and my face, clearly trying to get something done?! Are they trying to torture me, or are they actually oblivious to the fifteen other chairs in the area farthest away from me? Do they enjoy the hostile vibes I am sending their way?
People suck.
Anyway, that wasn't what I was planning to write about when I sat down, the inspiration to just hit me suddenly. About as suddenly as the chill in the air emanating from my general area hit the bitch that just took her phone conversation somewhere else. Seriously, chick, there are literally fifteen other chairs across the second floor of this building. Go talk about your nineteen-year-old, Mommy's-paying-my-tuition problems on the other side of the building. Please.
Whatever. Clearly I am not working on anything serious at this exact moment, but it still bothers me. The other day, with, like, three empty tables and two empty armchairs in the Starbucks, an elderly couple came and sat next to--no, WITH--me at the bar. They even struggled to get up onto the bar stools. It was like they knew I was all happy in my by-myself-ness and they had to ruin it to make their day. I realize that I am being completely crazy and totally overreacting with my annoyance, but it actually feels that way when people invade my privacy, even when I'm sitting in public.
Luckily it never lasts for long. And I can't help but wonder if that is because people are getting the hint that I am shit for company. I hope so, because that's the hint I am trying to drop. Get out of my space, people! Go be social somewhere else!
I laid in bed all day today. It may have been just want the doctor ordered. But, then, I also ate, like, five Little Debbie chocolate cupcakes, so I don't think the doctor would approve all that much. Although, I am certain that, while disapproving, they would do the same themselves.
I didn't work Saturday, obvi, since I instead went to the doctor. I didn't work yesterday either. I don't work again until Saturday. It feels like vacation.
You know, I thought, when I went to the doctor because my boss told me to and I knew I needed to if I wasn't going to work due to an injury that occurred at work, that it was bullshit, my arm wasn't too bad and I was just covering asses. But, today, I know it was the best idea that I didn't work this weekend. It didn't hurt so much lying around all day, but just sitting here for the few minutes I have typing this...it hurts. It's mostly in my shoulder now. And it's mostly just when I rotate it or push on something or rest weight on my elbow/forearm--like how you would to type. Every now and then my distal radius and wrist will twinge, but most of the pain is right in the deltoid, humoral head area. It's not awesome.
When I was at corporate filling out my stuff to get paid for this time, I saw someone who works at my new service part time. I guess he told my new boss about my injury--I WAS wearing a sling when I saw him, so I really am not surprised he noticed, but I am surprised he told my boss. Maybe he just commented. Or, maybe per my worst fears, my new boss totally googled me and somehow this blog popped up and he read all about my brewing EMS burnout. Although, when I really think about it, that seems less likely. Either way, he called me and asked about it and I told him it was nothing. Hopefully with another several days of rest--which means I need to cool it on all the writing and MedTerm this week (even though I SO want to get it done and be the best and have it done before anyone else can spell "appendices" right)--I am sure it won't be so bad and I'll be able to handle work at my new, less busy service. Fingers crossed. But on my left hand only. Because my right hand is a pussy.
I am looking forward to getting to experience a different service. Seeing how things are done in a smaller area, fewer medics, less bureaucracy, a station to hang out at in between calls. That will definitely be interesting and will only add to my experience in the field. But, I tell you, I am loving this sleeping late thing. Although, I guess working 08:00 Saturday to 08:00 Monday means Tuesday - Friday I can sleep as late as I want. This isn't a bad trade off...actually, it's quite good. So, the question I guess that I am really resting everything on is how much I will make working for this new service, and if making that much will cover everything I want to do with it?
This last year, I worked five to six days a week. I was miserable, but I was doing it for the money. Coincidentally, I am horrible at fiscal responsibility. I have none. Money--I spend it if I have it, and if I don't have it, I bitch about it and worry about it and commit to doing better until I once again have it, then I spend it some more. I suck. So, a year later, I have nothing to show for all the hard work I put in except burn out and a W-2 that reads some $39,000. That, by the way, is, like, thirteen more than I was supposed to make. Thirteen K that is.
I am so disappointed.
Maybe I need to read a book or something. Or, fuck, hire an accountant. I can do that, right?
*headdesk*
Anyway, my tax return should be nice, right? OhgodIhopeso.
My arm hurts, so I am bidding adieu. Good evening, all. I have to go sit at a computer for three and a half hours looking at word parts and making medical terms out of them. Fun, fun.
You Can't Always Get What You Want
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