On vacation

I am one of the lucky people who has a week-and-a-half off.

Lucky, I tell you, to wake up at 10 a.m. and lay in bed until 12 p.m. Lucky to be antsty that I have no work to think of. Lucky to be as lazy as I want to be and feel guilty about it at the end of the day. Lucky that I do not know what it means to relax.

I was ticked off yesterday that it rained and the boxes we stored outside of the house under the make-shift shed we have were drenched. We had to carry the boxes back on to the patio and dry the old clothes that were soaked. I tried to save what was left of some old letters my friends sent and little keepsakes I almost forgot about. After a while, I cooled down and realized that it was a blessing in disguise. The Ex-box was soaked. The letters from the ex were ruined. Okay, not all of them were wet, but I threw them all away. I realized I had no real reason to keep them, that in the next decade or so, I wasn't going to go through my stuff and read it. There were a lot of letters, suprisingly, a lot of trash, to say the least.

I told Francis about the letters and that I had to throw them all out. Thank God for his reaction. I found it a relief. He finally admitted that he's glad that they're gone, and that if they didn't get soaked, he would have made another reason for me to throw them out. He's usually nonchalant about things from my past, especially evidence (tangible things) that have been left behind. So, all this time, I thought he didn't mind. So much for reading between the lines. I find his patience intriguing, sometimes.

The other night, before I knew I was PMS-ing, I broke down in tears. It sounds funny, coming from me, becuase I don't really cry. Francis and I were discussing plans, and the moment he voiced his opposition, I totally lost it. I wanted to pull my hair out and hide in a hole somewhere. I don't want to talk about this anymore, I said. Francis was calm and explained that if I lost it everytime there was a problem, nothing could be solved. It's okay for us to argue, as long as we talk it through, he said. At that point, I would have rather been bonked on the head, but I realized that my boy friend had a good point. I'm glad that even though he knows I belong in a mental institution, he remains patient and very understanding.

PMS is not an excuse but a CAUSE for being a bitch. I know I'm not excused, but at least, I admit I'm a basket-case at this time of the month. God help me is Francis' motto, which makes me laugh and want to pull his hair out at the same time. "God help you from what, Francis? From your girl friend, the psycho?" I retort. Then I start the fanning-of-the-face-I-think-I'm-gonna-cry thing all over again. This is why Francis is a keeper- he's still on the other line trying to calm me down two hours later.

I have too much time on my hands, too much time for me to waste. I still have 12 more hours to procrastinate before bed time.

Vacations are tiring.