Everything rebels, everything breaks, with a synchronicity that's damn near alarming. The old PC at the office which houses the church database and financial records gave up the ghost, refusing to start (backed up those systems last week, seemingly by chance, but that's one of the only things that's kept me from being curled up in the fetal position under my desk). Can't find a stereo remote control in the boxes containing the evacuation from my career in higher education, stored largely untouched for two years in a locker which costs me just over fifty dollars a month (so far, it has been worth the cost to avoid looking at the wreckage of that life day after day). Trying to install too-wide replacement blinds provided by my apartment manager resulted in broken furniture and shattered crystal. My docket at work seems largely comprised of finding ways to cover things people haven't thought through— serving on mop-up duty for what appears to be others' inability to think. My skin constantly erupts into blotches of red itchiness and pain. Time with people almost inevitably turns to work, yet some question why I am not more social. Even my first draft of this entry was lost to a program crash.
These are only worldly things. Let's not talk about my heart, my soul. I don't even know how to inventory those anymore.
Crisis is my natural habitat. Bring me Armageddon and I can navigate— it may be the one thing I'm prepared for. But bombard me with a steady flow of small annoyances, minor irritants, and tiny inconveniences and I will begin to break down. My defenses cannot screen them all out; they build to an overwhelming cacophony of noise that won't let me think, won't let me breathe, won't leave me alone, won't go away. I want it to all go away.