All Our Most Brilliant Friends Are Doubting Themselves


Little musical tribute to the far-flung slut coven.

I am so exceedingly glad there’s therapy tomorrow.  I want to dive into it.  I want to fucking wrap it around me like this magical hoodie. It has been ages since I’ve been able to just ball up all of the disparate arenas of struggle and hand them over, put them through the wash and get them hung up and flapping in the wind.

There’s laundry running now.  My suitcase is empty.  I’ve written.



I am grateful for the chance to do the things I need to do – see my family and say goodbye to my grandfather without having to really pull my life apart to get the time off.  To have a vacation that lets me travel a long distance and see a city I’d have no notion existed in the hilly, watery, artistic manner it does.  I’m grateful to have the strength to know, at least in one terrible instance, when there was no reason left to fight.  I am grateful that the weekend is not so far off and there’s some stability.  I’m grateful I have my mentor and people to lean on when I feel like I’m running off the rails.  I’m grateful that people still listen now and again when I talk.

I love that I have some confidence that even if there’s only thirty minutes left in the day, I can probably get this post done.  There’s enough love to make that happen.  I love that I have nice clean sheets to float into tonight.  I love that I have parents that look after me and worry about me even if they’re unaware of every detail of my life.  I love that I was able to slow my roll today and not eat everything in sight.  I love that I have this little curlique of interest I get to chase.  I love that the weather means I get to wear skirts.  I love that that I am working as hard as I possibly can.  I love that I’m thinking about myself for a bit and stabbing the guilt that comes with that in the face.

Wouldn’t it be nice if I could think of something astoundingly flirtatious and clever to say?  Wouldn’t it be nice if the right chap read it?  Wouldn’t it be grand if I could finish this draft and then get my editing hat on?  Wouldn’t it be nice if I really felt re-energized and re-engaged after therapy and work didn’t crumple me up afterwards?  Wouldn’t it be nice if I refused to be crumpled?  Wouldn’t it be nice if I could return bras 2 and three and use the money to go drink some coffee and write in my Seattle-purchased notebook character backgrounds and start to pull at some of these loose threads?  Wouldn’t it be nice if the two or three things I’m thinking are left undone got done tomorrow without strain or fury?  Wouldn’t it be nice if I drank a draught of Malibu and danced on the ceiling?



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