With my ability to talk myself into anything, I assured myself that it was a chorus of frogs, and lulled myself to sleep. Waking to the same chirping song, I realized it was our septic alarm. Now, I'm concerned. We just had the septic guy out for a look, and it cost $125. I don't even know what to check, and you can't just let shit like this go. I don't know whom to consult. I went to check the cap on the sand filter (whose alarm was going off), and I can't even open the thing to begin to contemplate its mysteries, because some sadistic bastard has skulked away with the allen wrench set that usually sits in my toolbox.
So, you add up:
- broken technology I can't fathom
- unknown but certain costs on a budget that surpassed the red zone long ago
- lost items that shouldn't oughtta be lost
... and you have ample ingredients for a rage-tinged panic attack on Tommy's part.
Antidote? Talk about it, and quickly, before it takes root and floods the rest of the morning with unreasonable desperation and fear of the unknown. Luckily, my wife caught me kicking my way through the house, and I was able to unload on her in the space of forty seconds and two sentences all of the above concerns, and I immediately felt better.
The septic tank is still fucked to whatever degree it's fucked, but I am scheduled to spend the next 6 hours attached at the hip with my wife and daughter, and this narrowly-averted shitty mood is just what we don't need.
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