Survivor

Wednesdays are for the dogs. They're just the bleakest, most twisted, seemingly endless 24 hours of the week. I know, it might seem silly to be so fundamentally opposed to a single day, but I would be willing to argue that that's just because you lack perspective.

My perspective, to be exact.

I'd share it with you, but it's a Wednesday and I don't really feel like doing anything other than getting a good strong case of repetitive stress disorder from lazing about and scratching my butt.

This weekend, Dear Friend, is rapidly approaching. This means a great many things in my world.

First and foremost it means I will officially be yet another year older. Somehow though, I'm actually (mentally) gaining a year as I went through this whole year thinking I was a year older than I am. (How on Earth does that even happen?!) Secondly I am going fossil hunting with my dad. (Finally). It will be one month TO THE DAY from the first time we were supposed to go fossiling together and thus one month from The Great Automobile Disaster of 2011. As I no longer have a car (technically) Dad will be picking me up at my house.

This seems like it should be no big deal right? Dad and I are good friends. I love him more than life, so what does it matter if he knows where I live...well it matters Dear Friend. It matters a lot.

I have privacy issues. Big time. Second only to my ever-present mommy issues. Maybe it was all those years my mother spent stalking us...crawling in through the dog door in the middle of the night, peering through the windows of our friends houses, standing over me like a serial killer while I tried to sleep, or trying to have me exorcized. Maybe it was the way Dad dealt with the chronic anxiety/depression/anger tornado all Mommy-Dearest caused by taking the doors off all the rooms in the house and openly listening in to my phone calls. Maybe it's the way he always let himself into my first apartment to 'clean' it, and then accidentally happened to purge my house of all things that made him uncomfortable. Maybe it's the way my sister and I were always at war, snooping through each others things for something to hold over the other one. Maybe it's something different entirely. Maybe I'm just weird. It's hard to say.

All I know is that in the past 9 years I've had 11 different apartments and I have only once had my Dad over for dinner. Having family in my house is a strange and somehow invasive, anxiety ridden affair. It's like letting them crawl around in my head. I don't like it, and it's freaking me out man.

BUT if, and I do mean IF, I survive it, and the 3 hours alone in the car with Dad, it should be the best day ever. If you however, do not hear from me again, know that I went crazy. Disappeared off into the mountains, and am probably living inside that old rusted-out truck we couldn't find that day. Living off the land, and possibly the meat sourced from my own limbs.

I'll send out smoke signals. It will be just like this...only smoky-er. :)