Implosion

 Disneyland. Kittens. Crafty goodness. Smaller, firmer buns and thighs. These are the things I focus on most days. I have spent less and less of my time lately working on cover letters that won't even earn me the courtesy of a single-sentence rejection email. I'm getting closer and closer to either applying for jobs that pay me less than Obama is willing to pay me just to sit around and be my adorable self, or just living under my bed.

It's not even about that anymore. I don't have a problem with being poor. I like ramen and Bisquick with jam. It's... this free house. The free house is a problem. It's too free.

You know what "too free" means? Too free means that the people who we don't pay rent to are the ones in charge. Too free means that, for the last month, Poncho and I have had a teenager living with us. A teenager.

It's his cousin. He's nice, this cousin, and he's quiet. That's not the issue. The issue is that I am a grown and married woman who has no job or children, but does have a teenage roommate. Who leaves dishes in the sink and drawers slightly open. Also, I have to wear pants. Like, all the time. I'm wearing pants right now. It's horrible.

It's just one more thing to represent a lack of control over aspects of my life I should have control of by my age. It's one more reminder that I am utterly failing at this whole "being an adult thing."

So yesterday I got back on job-hunting wagon. And then I finished my craft project. And then I went to Disneyland to drown out the echo of my empty womb by screaming on the Matterhorn.

They say things always get worse before they get better. Darkest before the dawn, and all that. And, of course, I can never be too down because at least I have my dear darling husband to snuggle me and tell me to quit my whining.

 And, yes, the stupid images do make me feel better. So does this.

Bonus!
Check out my guest post at Stuff That Looks Like Jesus, in which I go over the glory that is Grilled Cheesus from this week's episode of Glee.