|THIS IS A READ-ONLY ARCHIVE FROM THE SORABJI.COM MESSAGE BOARDS (1995-2016).|
they do some inspections, blah blah, then i get this call. the buyer's realtor was in the house watching an inspector inspect and the roof leaks.
this is in the midst of a storm that dumped 10" of rain in about 30 hours.
lots of wind.
composite shingle roofs leak. but whatever.
so i already have $22K of termite damage estimated out, and I am crediting back $30K to the buyer.
they counter, they want to drop the price on the house by $10K. $10K for a leaking roof.
so i ask for their estimates and they don't have them and then they get them and they magically add up to just under $10K.
$4K for the roof, $2K to repair the side porch, $1800 for to surface the side porch.
whatever. i counter with a price drop of $5K. they are ready to take it when they ask Where is the septic inspection?
in my first counter i changed the contract, i gave them the responsibility for inspecting the septic.
so they get the septic inspected.
my septic tank is made of redwood.
it doesn't pass.
my shit is sitting in a redwood box. how fucked is that.
so, my septic doesn't pass. they counter with my price but i get the septic cleared.
so i have someone out to get an estimate on getting the septic cleared.
and my water has been shut off.
which is news to me. but apparently, in my many moves, i lost track of a bill.
a bill plus a bill that says HEY FUCKO WE'RE GOING TO SHUT OFF YOUR WATER.
i need a goddamn job.
but the upside
the upside is that my hamstrings are nice and limber.
from all this bending over. and taking it in the ass.
and the good news, the good news, the good news.
i'm not an alcholic. i don't smoke weed. i'm not compulsively masturbating. i'm not having overwhelming anxiety. my lady loves me. my new realtor is really, really, really cool.
suck it marshall.
there are moments where he wants to cry. his emotional self is that close to his skin. the good will of others makes him cry. the movies make him cry. he cried watching top hat, watching fred and ginger dance. he buries his face in the hair of the good woman and breaths into her his moisture. he wonders what happened to him.
there are other moments where he hangs from his bones in a numbness. where his lips are a line and he hasn't spoken in so long that he wonders if they would even unseal. where he won't focus, where his eyes cross slightly and he cannot summon the energy to bring them back in line. when he opened the book he stared at the pages and realized the printed type with a child's mind, a block, a pattern, a single unit, a grey shape, an ink design, a picture of nothing.
he took three showers today. once for the ritual, the morning activity. once because he was cold. once because he wanted to shave. because he never shaves unless he's just stepped out of the shower and because he couldn't bear to go another hour with the scruff of beard.
he watched a movie. he paused it once and stared at the wall. he had realized that he wasn't even watching it, that he was barely noticing the movement on the screen, that he could no longer focus to hear. he paused the movie and stared at the wall and thought that there was nothing he could do. he realized his jaw was tight and tried to focus on relaxing it. his eyes watered for no reason. the lights of the room became stars.
he drank water and juice. he ate a bowl of cereal. he poached eggs with his ramen. when he ate them he realized he only really wanted the hot liquid yolks, and the yolks drained into the soup and disappeared. he soft boiled eggs and cut them into buttered toast, hazelnut poppyseed toast. he wishes it was cheap wheat bread, like a sponge, a nondescript vehicle.
he listens to joy division and reads the same news over and over again.
he is uneasy, like there is something he is supposed to be doing. he doesn't know what to do. he doesn't know what he is doing.
he spreads his arms out over his head, he extends his feet. he is falling towards thirty. he is realizing that at one point he knew everything. why does he think he is special? he never is.
the salt taste in his mouth is manufactured.
there was a dream. he doesn't remember the dream but he remembers waking up and telling her about it. he's had many dreams lately. strange dreams. he remembers she said "why are you always saving people in your dreams?" he replied, "that is what i do."
but he's not sure that was the truth. how can he always be saving people if he is always tearing people down?
he's learned a lot, falling towards thirty. he wonders what he'll retain. he wonders if he is infact a better person, of if he just assumes he is. he assumes he is because that is his goal, always his goal. be a better person. looking back he can see his faults. was he ever a better person than he is today?
he'll read tonight. he'll read because he goes to bed alone and he is afraid of sleeping.
Something about your writing strikes a chord. My eyes water and nostrils flare with a burn. Sadness or mustard, who knows.
Be a better person.
I remember, years ago, before sorabji, feeling unworthy of even speaking and forever making upfor the faults of others. Just trying to be better so harsh words would pass me by.
No such luck.
I felt dirty and would constantly wash my hands and smell them. Bad days they smelt like ramen and I'd huddle in my sweatshirt. Now if I spend the day handling pennies I can taste the blood in my mouth and smell it on my hands.
I try not to notice this.
'Normalcy' is key.
I just feel so mediocre.