Written on 6/18/25
I have got to release this before I explode, and writing it out is the only thing that gives me even the slightest relief. Buckle up, because this is going to be a LONG. ASS. VENT. SESSION.
It’s moments like this where I wish someone would create an AI that could literally reach inside my mind and pour every thought onto paper—because there’s so much coming at me at once, it’s like venom shooting down to my fingertips, and honestly, I don’t think my fingers can keep up. But who am I fooling? My mom was a teacher, and I had to master Mavis Beacon just to go outside, so typing is basically first nature at this point.
Anyway, what I’m about to spill is all rooted in one thing that I struggle with the most: control. Or rather, the lack of it. If I could pin a giant mental banner in bold black letters on a white backdrop that screams:
“YOU CONTROL NOTHING!”
—I would.
I do my best to stay optimistic, positive—even though I’m human, and a Virgo (so you already know). But this week? This week came in swinging and just kept hitting harder. And while I don’t want to attract even more chaos by acknowledging it, at this point it feels like I’m flying down Shit’s Creek at full speed, clinging to a Five Below tube that’s leaking air because, in my infinite wisdom, I left the life jacket behind. So, why not just let it all RIP?
Let’s start with what first had me fucked up:
My seven dogs—my sweet little hellraisers— (why I have seven dogs you ask?! Yeah, I hear you… that’s for another entry) decided to knock down the sad excuse of a barrier I had put up to protect my plastic greenhouse. They destroyed everything within reach. They even had the nerve to poop in one of the beds where my beautiful lettuces, broccoli, kale, sage, and beets were growing—the very same ones I planned to harvest that day for a fresh salad I had been dreaming about. A bed that was supposed to give me food because I can’t afford groceries with my FIVE. FUCKING. DOLLARS I receive after working countless hours every week.
I started those plants from seed back in March. I spent weeks researching, buying, returning, and finally building what I thought was the best damn greenhouse I could afford. I even added a wooden foundation, to connect it to so I could assure it would be protected by this shitty ass unpredictable weather we’ve been having.
But of course—because life—I had to also remodel the yard, reinforce my old DIY garden fence, and create a separate area for my dogs so they wouldn’t ruin everything. I spent every penny I had, broke my back hauling materials, sweating over every detail, just for the dream of having a space where my plants could thrive, my dogs could play, and transform my back yard into a magical garden sanctuary.
And the second I finally felt that moment of peace? When I thought maybe I could enjoy my hard work? I realized the dog area needed more space. And in rushing to expand it, I didn’t fully plan the new gate. Now, everything’s wrecked. My greenhouse is a graveyard, flies buzzing around the remnants of shit one of my “angels” left behind, and a few sad plants clinging to life.
Fine. I shifted focus. My outdoor garden started making progress. I prayed for rain to help it along because I’ve been working countless hours and the weather report stated it was supposed to rain for 4 days but when I touched the dirt the night before it felt like not even a lick of spit hit it. However, while sitting at work I received an alert stating it was thunderstorms coming to the area I work, and I wanted to know if it would be reaching home as well since it’s an hour distance. And what do I see when I checked my camera?
A huge ass branch smashed my makeshift gate I created because of course my FIVE. FUCKING. DOLLARS couldn’t afford a professional one. My neighbor helped move it, bent post and all, but I could see it—the damage, the chaos. My garden? Looks like a hurricane, tornado, and monsoon had a group meeting and decided to destroy my shit personally.
And while all this is happening, I’m at work. At this job that’s draining my soul. I looked at my pay stub—$878 in taxes. $300+ for benefits. And what am I left with?
FIVE. FUCKING. DOLLARS.
I happen to be on the phone with my neice (who’s older than me) discussing this joke of a check and her advice from love and knowledge furthermore angered me because she was saying that working like a crackhead at one job was me giving away my earnings so I should get yet another job to bridge the fucking gap of taxes and bullshit. When I already don’t have two good minutes to myself to even think where else I would love to pour my slave talents next.
I want to scream. I’m trapped in every web, locked in every cage, and sitting at the very bottom of the earth’s crusty ass crack.
And let’s not forget—I’m still at work, needing to go home and fix this mess in the middle of the night with a flashlight because I have to be back here tomorrow. And of course, I need those bullshit benefits—benefits that probably wouldn’t even cover what I’d need if I had the mental breakdown I’m on the brink of.
Oh, and let’s add the cherry on top: I got rear-ended in April. My poor 2008 Ford Taurus, my ride-or-die because it’s all my FIVE. FUCKING. DOLLARS can afford, got hit. The insurance covered what looked damaged, I paid for repairs and used the leftover to fund my backyard dream. Turns out there was more damage that no one saw, so now I owe $881 to the shop to get my car back—money I don’t have because it’s tied up in soil, lumber, and screws.
So yeah. I had to use my mortgage money. And I pray that eventually one of my checks will be able to replinish what I spent but how can it when it’s being hit with every fee known to man with no explanation in reach and DARE I ASK?!
There’s more, but I’m out of energy. Right now, all I can say is: my optimism is on life support, and hope is slipping through my fingers. I don’t want to do this life right now—but I don’t want to die. So there’s that. Thanks for coming to my ted talk. Until next time.
Fierce Rebel