There is nothing like living on your own, with absolutely no one to distract you; it is inevitable that you come face to face with your own insanity.
Yesterday evening before I went to bed, I sat down on the couch and reached for my journal which, for the past three weeks, has had a nice spot on the coffee table next to my Greek phrasebook.
It wasn’t there.
Not a split second passed after I noticed the journal’s disappearance, before this thought crossed my mind:
“Oh my gosh. Someone has sneaked in here, stolen my journal, and is now hiding behind the french-door curtains, and now that he knows I know the journal isn’t here, he is going to come out from behind the curtains and say ‘Looking for this?’ And then he is going to kill me.”
Because that makes a lot of sense. I couldn’t possibly have mislaid the journal.
I slowly turned towards the french doors and stared at the curtains, trying to discern if my journal thief/murderer was large enough to make the curtains bulge out. After a breathless few seconds, I tiptoed to the curtains and flung them back.
I am here to tell you that there was no murderer behind the curtains. The journal was found under a pillow on the couch.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
About a week and a half ago, I went to the top drawer of my dresser to get some cash. Besides holding my underwear, the top drawer also serves as my bank.
I grabbed some bills, and noticed that there was a lot less money than I thought there should be. I counted, and sure enough, I was about 200 euros short.
My first thought: “Damn Robyn. I knew he seemed too nice and weak chinned to be trustworthy. How am I going to get my money back from him?”
And then: “Nahh. I hate confrontation. He can have it. But damn it all, now I have to get into Koroni and find an ATM machine, and that means I have to figure out bus schedules. I hate the damn bus so much. This sucks.”
Robyn, you see, is my neighbor: a very slight, very mild mannered, very quiet British man. To my knowledge he has never been in my cottage, and has no clue that the top drawer is my ATM.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So, I have had to face the fact that, rather than admit my own failings - for instance: that I am disorganized and never really know how much money I spend on anything - I jump to the most illogical solution possible.
Yesterday evening before I went to bed, I sat down on the couch and reached for my journal which, for the past three weeks, has had a nice spot on the coffee table next to my Greek phrasebook.
It wasn’t there.
Not a split second passed after I noticed the journal’s disappearance, before this thought crossed my mind:
“Oh my gosh. Someone has sneaked in here, stolen my journal, and is now hiding behind the french-door curtains, and now that he knows I know the journal isn’t here, he is going to come out from behind the curtains and say ‘Looking for this?’ And then he is going to kill me.”
Because that makes a lot of sense. I couldn’t possibly have mislaid the journal.
I slowly turned towards the french doors and stared at the curtains, trying to discern if my journal thief/murderer was large enough to make the curtains bulge out. After a breathless few seconds, I tiptoed to the curtains and flung them back.
I am here to tell you that there was no murderer behind the curtains. The journal was found under a pillow on the couch.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
About a week and a half ago, I went to the top drawer of my dresser to get some cash. Besides holding my underwear, the top drawer also serves as my bank.
I grabbed some bills, and noticed that there was a lot less money than I thought there should be. I counted, and sure enough, I was about 200 euros short.
My first thought: “Damn Robyn. I knew he seemed too nice and weak chinned to be trustworthy. How am I going to get my money back from him?”
And then: “Nahh. I hate confrontation. He can have it. But damn it all, now I have to get into Koroni and find an ATM machine, and that means I have to figure out bus schedules. I hate the damn bus so much. This sucks.”
Robyn, you see, is my neighbor: a very slight, very mild mannered, very quiet British man. To my knowledge he has never been in my cottage, and has no clue that the top drawer is my ATM.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So, I have had to face the fact that, rather than admit my own failings - for instance: that I am disorganized and never really know how much money I spend on anything - I jump to the most illogical solution possible.
This, I believe, is commonly called denial.
I should probably work on that.
maybe you should come up with a better bank. That's where everyone stores their extra cash.
ReplyDelete