Mental breakdown. Because life is much too easy as is.

No call from Shirl. Mom says I should call her and that my putting her off might have done just that. I don't really care. I can't say I'm hip to being a full-timer anyway. I knocked the online resume down to part-time. We'll see about those nibbles. I feel I need meds first. Leaving the house has become an issue for no good reason; that's the sick part about it: my reasoning vs. my reasoning.

The opportunity to live on Mars will probably arise before my van gets fixed. A conversation with my mom about going to any ol' interview just for practice turned into me crying and her calling the mechanic only to find out he's on vacation for the week. I called Ned to say the outrageous amount of time they've kept me waiting has me so frustrated that I'm going to go ahead with the BBB report and the one to the local news. He said he tried to get me my money back and hand me my broken van a long time ago but the higher-ups refused. I told him I'm pissed they keep taking my van back, as if they're going to fix it, instead of just washing their hands of me. Whatever. Very difficult for me to imagine a life where I'm sitting in a cubicle in pumps and my kids are comforted by the sight of each other amid the same four walls M-F and a crowd of strange kids and adults when my transportation is nil. It's all weighing on me, heavy, in my light, and toilet-papering my spirit.