Crone, Maiden, and Agent Provocateur

Oh look, it’s 10pm and I haven’t even begun to write today’s entry.  That’s an odd feeling.  Another odd feeling is my apparent inability to wallow even when Lady Menarche would decree that it is time for all good women to rend their garments and dye their hair and walk about with a vicious expression on their faces.  I used to be an extraordinary wallower.  I could affect a pretty demolishing glare at fifty paces.  I probably still am, but for the moment, I don’t have the usual kindling for a good pout. A week out of the month it seemed like cause to burn down the world and to hell with everyone in it for every wrong done me and every snub and loss, especially those I’d forgotten for they must have been especially bad.   And there would be plenty of Starbucks and hamburgers that would certainly agree with everything I felt as well they should, given what I paid for them.   I think that sugar and fat go very well with wallowing in existential ennui.  It all feels horrible, but at least you’ve got chocolate to make it seem like you’re fighting it somehow.

Today was not like that, though. Today, I sort of just ran my tail off and ended up giving the emo the run-around, rather literally.   Once the day of filing and paying bills and dealing with my more and more obnoxious crispy septuagenarian volunteer who turns up out of the blue after a month and works for an hour and a half and toddles her bedazzled cowgirl boots back out to wherever she goes after spinning my world into frenzy was through, the day was darkening and cold.  Sort of got under my skin and though I’d eaten a good breakfast, a good lunch, I was going to go to the grocery store.  That was the plan.  The plan also included buying some kind of hair dye on a whim.  I told myself that it was my birthday (it’s Sunday, darling, Sunday!) and that I needed some kind of ass-kicking, TLC, makeover revamp – the kind you could buy at a drugstore, of course.  I sort of floated around the aisles like a little girl lost thinking about all the shitty self-dye jobs I’d perpetrated and maybe instead of fucking up my hair in the name of variety, I could just go to the hair salon tomorrow and get a decent cut and wax and that’d be the birthday treat.

With that in mind, I straightened up and I got some good food – some of which I really still should eat but I’m rather full and undecided on the matter – and I went home.  Didn’t buy pop or ice cream or anything untoward despite many pleas from the id to do just that.  Then, even though the plan says no cardio today, just strength exercise – I thought that probably yesterday I was so dead on my feet because I took a day off.  So I did a DVD and walked/jogged/spazzed for half an hour and did the strength exercises.

I just couldn’t stand that creepy little bineweed cropping up, that little smirk that sometimes has my sister’s face or this vlogger’s face or this celebrity’s face but more often than not it looks like me and it just knoooowwws that I can’t do what I’ve set out to do.  It just is so damn cocksure that I have to prove it wrong.

Gotta take this broken fire hydrant of emotions and use it to clean out the gutters.