My Web Authoring 2 Professor popped in again yesterday while I was working, and we chatted a bit. I admit, I griped a little bit about the Windows 10/Visual Studio compatibility issue that has been causing me major problems in Object Oriented Programming this semester. Combined with my funky schedule that isn’t conducive to lab visits, and the stuff we’re dealing with in trying to deal with things related to the recent loss of Adam’s mother, I’m about a click away from dropping that class. This weekend is going to be the determining factor. If I can get the work done on an older laptop (this depends on the Amazon delivery of a power cord that is supposed to arrive tomorrow, and upon my ability to get this week’s assignment coded and turned in on time after receiving said power cord for the older computer…) then there is hope.
When I told Melody about “how I spent my Christmas vacation,” (the string of deaths last year not including the ferret, the projectile deer hitting my van the night before the deposition, etc.) she asked what god I had pissed off.
I didn’t even get into the whole “we haven’t come up with the cremation money for Adam’s mother yet…” part of the story. Or the visual details I could have included on the whole finding.
I told her a bit about 2013… the part about my brother and his wife and their sailing off to Cuba. The part that’s all public record. I didn’t go into the other parts of that year – like the details of my divorce battle, my geriatric dog going through dementia and growing violent, the day I scrubbed the dog’s diarrhea out of the carpet shortly after learning I had failed the Florida Bar exam for the second time…
If I were to write an autobiography, nobody would believe it was all true. If I were to fill it with the real, gruesome details, it would have a twist of Stephen King and David Sedaris to it. And nobody would believe it was real.
Then again, maybe “normal” people like to “gloss over” those details in life like the migraine at Disney where they try to avoid throwing up and wind up, instead, painfully aspirating their own vomit and thinking they are going to die? Maybe I just tend to focus on the gruesome.
Some day, I will write it all down. Every last disgusting detail.