Hello.

My name is Inigo. . . M-something. Oh, darn.

That right there is what I would be like, were I a diminutive Spanish sword-fighter bent on revenge, except 'darn' would be louder and higher-pitched, and it would be several words, none of which are 'darn' but some of which start with the same letter. I have, on several occasions, gotten my own name wrong. Luckily not at crucial moments of drama. Not yet.

Meanwhile I stumble through life and run into things a lot.

Then, along comes Timothy. Handsome, handy, intelligent. And he cooks, which I do too in the sense that I often heat up food before eating it. He even tells me he wants to financially support me. He's dealt with more of my panic attacks than I care to remember, and has played a significant role in restoring my sanity, mainly because he's consistently given the impression that cuddling a sobbing, snotting girl is just how he likes to spend an afternoon.

There was one particular day when I held a party at my house. Timothy paid for most of the food (my boss hasn't quite got the hang of paying employees yet; I'm gently encouraging her about that), was funny and entertaining - pausing only to fix my toilet, using the extra-long rubber gloves he happened to have in his car - and then gave one of my friends a lift home. As the two guys left, I began, vaguely, to tidy up. My curtains were open onto a reasonably busy street, and all my doors and windows were open, lighting me up as if I was on stage.
At that point, a group of very drunk men walked up through my front garden and knocked on the door and windows, making enquiries as to whether I might oblige them by removing various items of clothing. They were VERY drunk. I went and hid in the bathroom with the light off, hoping they'd get bored and go away (as opposed to getting violent - or simply trying my not-locked-yet doorknob). As I sat on my newly fixed toilet (in the dark), I heard Timothy's voice. "All right guys, move along now." Within twenty seconds, they were gone. So in one day Timothy rescued my party, my toilet, and me.

Don't you just hate the guy? He comes into my life out of nowhere, and singlehandedly solves my two greatest problems - insanity, and money. It's creepy, that's what it is.

I'm grateful, sure. What with not getting attacked by a gang and all. I really like Timothy. The problem is, now I'm all attached to him. Having an emotional stake in a human being is just dangerous. I'm all vulnerable now, and it freaks me out. Every so often I interrogate him, trying to find some flaws more impressive than those I've already seen. Still no luck. He's just abnormally good, and that's all there is to it.

On Friday I ran out of petrol on the way to our date, and had to reverse-call my Mum (I was also out of phone credit) to call Tim to come and rescue me. That was the third time I've run out of petrol in two months. My dignity levels aren't holding up to the strain although Tim's good nature is chugging along just fine - oh, that slimy do-gooder.
But today was a grand day in the life of Fel. I needed to send the first fifty pages of one of my books into a competition. A competition for which the entry fee is a cool $50, so I wanted it to be worth it. I borrowed $70 off Timothy, which was necessary for the postage, and edited like mad (I've just paid a friend $100 - more than my weekly income - to write sarcastic comments all over it, which he did beautifully).

All day I was freaking out: I wasn't happy with the book, I needed to get to the post office right away, my main character was limpid and my plot made no sense. At last reasonably satisfied, after a brief but energetic bout of screaming at the printer, I leapt into my car and squealed off to the the post office. I knew I was pushing myself too hard, but I couldn't calm down. I knew the post office was about to close, but I couldn't accept I'd lost the moment. One of the things about anxiety disorders is that you get very worried that anxiety will kick in. I was on the edge, and I knew it.

But I made it. Got the thing sent, hurrah! I defeated the evils of procrastination and machinery, and posted my book on time. And I did it myself, so there.

My mum bought me fabric today, to make a skirt for my birthday (in case you can't tell these are my cunning survival methods at work: I have a birthday coming up, so I use it to acquire things I need for work. That way, I can spend more money on my writing). The sewing machine and I have had words in the past, so I was apprehensive. I haven't sewed in years.

But I did it. A whole friggin' skirt. It fits me like. . . like it was made for me. I'm incredibly impressed with myself, particularly since I attacked the skirt the same way I attack life: without preparation, with only the haziest notion of what I'm doing, and without obeying everyone else's rules (I don't own an iron, or tissue paper, or even pins, so I used none). I confess, I did technically make it inside out...but it's beautiful. I only unpicked the zipper once, which I think it's a record.

And THEN, when Timothy was gone, I discovered the toilet was broken.

So I fixed it. Myself. Without any of that namby-pamby 'using a glove' stuff either. *I* used a coathanger and a large number of plastic bags.

Yeah. That's me. Living life on the EDGE, man. And in a pretty skirt. Though not technically at the same time as I was wrestling with my toilet bowl.

So I feel less daunted by Timothy's magnificence today. I've had a chance to remember that I'm more than my debt (which is considerable), and I'm more than my boss' breach of contract (a fight I know I'm going to win - a big thank you to the welfare lawyers I consulted), and I'm more than the sum of my tears and fears (also considerable). Which sorta explains why Tim isn't bothered by all that, and why he's in love with me: because I'm his match in the awesomeness stakes.

Fel