It’s St. Patrick’s Day and here I am, at work. The weather is nice (at this point 40 degrees feels nearly tropical), and yet, here I toil. By choice. Something is amiss.

I’ve also come to the rather painful realization that I can no longer differentiate normal from abnormal. Yesterday a relatively strange phone call had me contacting just about every relatively normal person that I know to ask, “is that normal?” Apparently, my suspicions were correct. It was a weird phone call. I was sort of relieved at the proclamations of weirdness, to be honest. I’d hate to think that my life is so far removed from normal that I can no longer recognize it.

Dreamt about Sam again last night. We were packing for a camping trip, filling two truck beds to drive to England to sleep on beaches and eat spotted dick. Zeus filled the entire capacity of one truck, a truck that closely resembled the recliner at the house in Bedford where my mother would sit and clip coupons while I draped bandanas like curtains on her walker. Zeus was sitting with his feet up, surveying the scene, waiting while we packed for the trip.

I’m worried about my sisters. Worried about my mother. My dad is still a prick. Things are not going well there, and I’m not sure what to do to help. Do I give away the dogs, sell the furniture and appliances, and go back? I think that would kill me, but what about the toll on them? I don’t really have any answers. There doesn’t seem to be a way for me to really solve anything without giving up on everything I am and want. There is no compromise to be struck.

I never thought that I would be viewed as the selfish bitch of the family. I never thought of myself as selfish at all. I guess it all depends on the circumstances, doesn’t it?

Perhaps I really should have gone downtown today.