No, I am not okay. I am not and have never really been okay. The closest I have ever been was accepting my not-okayness and that, my friends, was pretty fucking sweet.
I feel as if I have never been me. Not the whole me, anyway.
Like some IKEA furniture that got delivered with missing pieces and directions in Aramaic. These missing parts are not cosmetic or optional they are functional and they are missing and the customer service number just rings and rings and rings.
I put together what is there as best as I can and it looks alright, but I wouldn't put any weight on it if I were you and it does not do what it is supposed to do.
If one more person tells me how great this office chair or bookshelf or dresser or workstation is, I am going to scream. I'm going to scream because it is not an office chair or bookshelf or dresser or workstation. It is what I threw together with what I had and it sucks because it doesn't do what it was designed to do.
The worst part is the hope. The hope that the delivery person will just show up with the missing parts or that someone, a real person, in customer service will answer or that I'll find the missing pieces myself. Fuck. I'll check under the bed.
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