I've been depressed. Or at least, Mom keeps wondering on e-mail why I'm not happily babbling the news to everyone at work. I haven't even told Hill you-know-what. I'm not really in the mood to. Maybe after next weekend.

I can't say I'm too thrilled to be alone again. Mainly it just feels like I've gone back to my old life, like he was never there. Back to same old boring shit. Back to phone only conversations. Back to running out of things to talk about because my day was boring as ass and still wanting to be in contact with him, but we literally have nothing more to say that the other doesn't know already. (Well, I wanted to talk to him about the conversation with Mom, but I just had the feeling he didn't want to go there.)

There's as always, the usual money worries. We need to go pick up household supplies at Wal-Mart again, so there goes a fair chunk of change for the week already. There's now computer worries to add to on top of that. Dave did a massive debugging of my computer after I got viruses on it, and now the thing runs a.....l.....o.....t.....s......l.....o......w.......e......r than it used to. It's that bad. He's now saying I should delete everything on the computer, get a copy of Windows 98, and redo the entire thing. UGH. Don't wanna. But it has a hard time rebooting now- I have to reboot it once or twice just to get it running smoothly. Plus it's now shutting itself off when it goes idle, which means so much for defragging it while I'm asleep. Plus I had to delete my entire mp3 collection.

Plus there's all the stuff I should be working on now that I don't have you-know-who around to distract me. I said I'd make Hill's bridemaid gown awhile back, but guess what, it's not going to be nearly as easy to do as I figured it would be. I'm going to have to remake the pattern from scratch, which'll be a ton more work, dammit. *sigh* I want to make jewelry for the 3WA Craft Fair (at least I finally found the rest of my bead collection so I can do that). And I need to do laundry, plus hunt for a bunch of missing clothes I just can't find any more. I don't much feel like doing any of it.

Though at least my hair seems to have stopped doing major falling out since I told Mom. One good thing to come out of this.... too bad the rest remaining is so thin and weird-acting.

I got some amusing spam today- one claiming I could get a house for 5 cents (inside the e-mail, it said $1 for a house, though) and another inviting me to join er, an infamous secret group that controls the world and shall Not Be Named. Some "anonymous" person "who cares about me" put me in for it, it claims. And it even gave me a stock tip!

They had another union protest today in front of the building I work in. I made sure to stay inside today to avoid the issue. From what I've heard, there were at most 10-15 people out there at its peak.

In other news, Nikki was either going into labor last night or was going to be induced if she wasn't. She apparently has high blood pressure and a headache, which were bad signs, so they were hauling her in pretty early. Dave was all "Tomorrow we'll be an aunt and uncle!" (He already is an uncle, but um, whatever) I'm all "me, an aunt? Yikes."

I don't know why I post over at TUS sometimes. I am just like, the worst wimpy person over there. At 3WA they're pretty much used to me, and there's some other wimpies on occasion, and nobody berated me for once again wimping out the last time I went on about my parental issues. But TUS has a bunch of tough chicks, and a stupid little post by me along the lines of "I'd like to elope, but it ain't worth the family strife to actually DO it" let to a series of posts along the lines of "if you can't tell your family to fuck off, you're not old enough to get married." Which made me feel *this big.* And let's face it, is probably true given my maturity level. And frankly, this post was a kick in the gut.

I'm a wimp. I truly am. Thing is, the games DO shut me up and work to manipulate me. I can't stand up to them, I can't say "No, this is what I'M going to do and I don't care how much you don't like it," and mean and maintain it. Giving in actually does work to shut them up. And I'm so used to lying to my family about who I really am (they don't want to know, trust me), it doesn't even bother me to do so in a frigging ceremony. Though in all honesty, so long as nobody makes me get married in a church (specifically, a Catholic church), I don't really care.

Eloping is more of a fantasy for me than anything else, mainly because the idea of wedding planning makes me want to hide under the bed (where the bridal books are currently being stashed, coincidentally). If we hauled off to Vegas, it'd be all done for us! Hooray! That and eloping would cut down on the number of relative fights to deal with. In some ways, this sounds like fun. In other ways, I'm kind of eh about it. I had a revelation a few months ago that having to elope might not be all that fun in some respects. I'd feel a bit cheated on some of the spectacle. Sigh. I feel so shallow.

And speaking of shallow... did the obligatory phone call tonight and it somehow got into this:

M: "But that's just a promise ring, isn't it?"

J: "Eh, I dunno... I guess we'll get another one eventually." This is the plan, anyway. Note eventually. "There's this Canadian claddagh ring site I like, and it's got these cool rings... They have diamonds in it, but you can get a diamond or other stone, and I'd really prefer some other stone, because diamonds are boring..."

M: "This one girl at work got a promise ring from her boyfriend. It's a very nice diamond." A diamond for a "promise" ring? Isn't that a bit much? Mom then proceeds to go into great detail about the beauty of diamonds and what pretty cuts you can get for them.

J: "Well, I just don't think they're very pretty. Why are they such a big deal anyway?"

M: "They last forever, they mean fidelity..." (she goes on at great length about how they are the Best. Stones. Ever.)

Why do I have the feeling that They Expect A Diamond on my finger? Ugh, I don't even like them, cost aside! My poor boy.

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