Tropical Mansions and Incomplete Transitions

Socket Seekers, I might be turning into my mother.

You see, she never really cared for me, and I would say the feeling is mutual now. I seem to have all these grand ideas for projects. I get all excited and I buy everything. Then, I do this unbelievable thing that she was the absolute master of: I pack it all up, put it in a closet, and completely forget about it. When we moved, we found one of the most memorable examples of the massive number she left behind—a project to make stuffed animals for us when we were little kids. We were in our 20s at the time.

Last night at 3:00 AM, I woke up and realized I am doing the exact same thing. Except, I don't have her excuse of raising three children as a single mom—not that those things actually take up time or anything.

Currently, I have these tote bags with bands on them that I was going to convert into purses. I bought shoulder strap material, zippers, color-matched thread, organizers that fit perfectly, D-rings, and all the other necessary hardware. Then, I did the most amazing thing. I put all the materials in the bag and sat it on the back of my desk. It will be forgotten there until I either move, or my landlord gets complaints about the smell of my decomposing body and sends someone to clean out my apartment. I also purchased materials to build drawers in the back of my Jeep. The wood is currently neatly stacked in a storage unit, where it will likely rot and grow into a new tree before I ever get that project done.

My main incomplete project is my transition. I tell my therapist that I don't feel like I am making progress, but she just rolls her eyes at me, so I think she likes me. She then says, "You are in therapy, on HRT, planning to move to a new city to transition, etc." I tell her I didn't do anything this week, which makes her sigh. Then, I see her eyes turn into dollar signs like some kind of Looney Tunes cartoon character. I think she has her eyes on a mansion someplace tropical, and my issues are so severe I will be in therapy until I have paid for it—and a yacht to take her there.

I am still employed so I can still pay for her mansion, but you can tell I don't care at all about my job. I am failing to even pretend these days. I do get in a lot of snarky comments lately, so at least that gives me a reason to log in every day.

I do enjoy writing these, but we all need to keep that to ourselves. If my therapist finds out she was right, she will want a raise, and I won't be able to afford to keep her around long enough to treat all my issues.

Useless Recap:

• Packing premium hardware into dark closets is a genetically inherited trait.
• My uninstalled Jeep drawer wood will likely grow into a fresh tree inside my storage unit.
• My therapist's eyes have officially morphed into Looney Tunes dollar signs to fund a tropical mansion.
• Logging into work strictly to deploy tactical sarcasm is a valid reason to remain employed.

Disclaimer: Warner Bros. and Looney Tunes do not manage the financial portfolio or the tropical estate planning of my mental health professional. Please don't sue me; I cannot afford a legal battle and my landlord already has enough complaints to handle.