I’m looking at a dead Victorian corpse stood up and staring at me in a photograph. Apparently that was in vogue back in the day. And it is appropriate, if obviously bizarre, as metaphor. Propped up and filling the frame.
Though I feel, oddly energized as I sit in this 60 degree room, reading about a guy in Denver who died when his pipes burst – not his metaphorical pipes – but his water pipes which apparently knocked down a wall which is what killed him. I feel sort of at that grand point of surfeit. Of just UGH. Of just making food feel like such a disgusting burden that I can’t bring myself to it, anymore. I have been so over-caffeinated and over-sugared, and genuinely over-fed today that I feel like I just want to drink water until I am no more.
Just everything is fitting like shit. Everything is falling in disrepair everywhere I look. It is giving me apoplexy. Bra straps won’t stay up. I’ve knocked my ukulele hard. My debit card is all funky. Everything is riding up and itching. I have a night guard for my teeth which I don’t know if it will help or not, but I am already irritated by the very idea of it. I feel just swollen up. That rapacious energy and desire to fill all my anxious chasms with a savaging of food (that sounds gross and it is gross) seems to be muted for a moment.
I am not just a pile of dust. Even though I have behaving that way. I am not just a thirst, a hunger, a desire.
Oh, Saturday nights. I loathe how philosophical I become on a Saturday night, but the heater isn’t going on and the night is going to get so cold so I’m wearing this marshmellow coat that is making it difficult to type and so I am thinking where the words might come from and what to say to carry us all through, and I don’t know.
I just would like to tear off all my skin. In absence of an easy, and sanitary method to do that without causing lasting damage, I write. I supplicate. I get down on my knees or try and lean back in my bed and move past the fussiness and frustration and say that I understand how this is a cause and effect. That eating like this devastates my mind. It reduces me to a tubeworm with half of a tubeworm’s intelligence. It makes change feel like it’s just been kicked another year down the road because how could I possibly gather myself up from being such a complete wreck. It just makes me feel horrible on so many levels for a few brief moments of what is, essentially, psychosis fueled by an excess of sugar. I become Honey Boo Boo Child and no, I am not in any way joking.
It’s hard to translate that into some sort of marriagable, hangoutable, normal human being behavior.
So I don’t know. Long sleep. Long, long sleep. Past cold and past hot ideas.