Shakespeare or One of That Crowd



We are coming up on two thousand posts.  We are not so far off from two thousand daily posts.

It’s not nothing.

The heat has gotten to me today.

I have begun, and that’s gotten to me, too.  I came home quite aware that after eating voraciously and with intent last night that I had tossed out have a tray of chocolate coated marshmallow-filled cookies.  I knew this because at quarter till midnight, more than half sick, with my finger digging into that very tray in the hopes I could get one more down my gullet before perfection would rein anew.  And with the heat melting everything, it was just like digging in some sort of primordial ooze, and I just wanted to die that I felt like I had to keep trying to eat it because I would regret giving it up, even as I felt disgusting and addicted and I knew that I had to.  But finally, I slung myself upward and tossed it out.  But after this long day of stressful news piling on stressful news and the light at the end of the tunnel pulled further and further from reach, and me packing a good-girl, low-carb lunch I was too stressed and irritated to eat, I thought: Oh, there’s those cookies in the trashcan.  We can start again tomorrow.  No matter that they’d be a sweaty, gloopy, sugary mess, or more like than not, contaminated with something else thrown out afterwards.  Imagine the deflating of my spirit to realize that somehow I’d been responsible and brought the garbage out this morning.

Am I allowed to be sad?  I half-start to cry about it, and then I the slightest interrogatory thought as to why I am upset and the whole circuitous argument plays out: I am sad because he didn’t write me back, well, he didn’t write me back because he wasn’t attracted to me, and he wasn’t attracted to me because I take zero care of myself and I take zero care of myself because the only thing that even begins to address the sadness, the feelings of not enough and wrong and failure and stress at work for thing going poorly is eating myself numb.

But I see it laid out like that, the snakeskin peeled off whole and entire, and I think, well, there’s nothing to be upset about, is there?

I think, oh, well.  There is no beginning to it, and no end to it, and well, life is this way.  Sort of sour and awful.   There’s nothing to be done because every thread you pull takes another one with it somewhere else.   That’s just the sugar leaving, I think.  That’s just one day of being told no, and one day of sitting in the fact that I keep being told things will get better and I’m not seeing it happen.  I want it to be what I think it should and it isn’t.  It’s the opposite, in fact, and I am worried that everyone is going to go sour on me.  I don’t even know what I feel.  I’m just one snakeskin clear.  I feel like there’s armories and tanneries still left to stock with the armors and skins I have to shroud myself.

But I am grateful for 30 legitimate people liking my stupid picture even if my little sister had to be bizarre and say I looked like a geisha.

I am grateful to my friends for making me laugh.  I am grateful to Last Tango in Halifax for something other.

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