So remember awhile ago when I was whining about not knowing what to do about investment markets? It turned out I did, this one time, anyways, and I managed to make good on the slide and recovery, which makes me feel as clever as I felt yesterday when I woke up not vomiting despite having gone to Bedfordshire piss drunk. Is the trick reading The Economist and not being a punk? Is that the big mystery? I don't know. Like any good Italian from upwardly mobile peasant stock I want to buy real estate, so I think I'll just keep playing with the market money I already have to play with and see if that's the case. It's all RRSPed up so it's not like it's real or anything, since I'm totally not guaranteed to make it to 65 or whatever.
Yesterday was busy busy busy, embarrassingly so for someone who was phoning it in, and I had my second-to-last appointment with my analyst. I'm going to miss him. That's a role that no one has played for me before and we talk about things and explore things that I can't do even by myself, let alone with anybody else. I still have about 75 more hours to clock up before I can apply to some analysis schools, but the idea of getting a new analyst feels as silly as getting a new best friend or a new cat just because I'm moving away from the old one. We can literally phone it in for awhile, but when I move to a city I suppose the next step will be getting a Francophone analyst so I can get over my massive distrust of them, just like Monsieur helped me get over my massive distrust of men.
Gahhhhhh. Time to work. I can't believe I'm still going there when my brain consistently refuses to join me.