I have injected the cat with her kitty medicine. She was a tolerable patient, willing to lap up the gooeyness that didn’t quite make it into her mouth even though, quite reasonably, she hates it. She’s doing what she has to do to stay well. Would that I were as amenable to my own self-regard as Miss Priss next to me.
But if I am under the silvery halo of the feminine and the bloody scythe she harvests with each and every adult month thus far, if I am moved to eat every last unholy thing in sight, at least one can say that she is stuffed entirely with a delicious salad and rice cakes. I’m holding onto that as I shift gears and possibly return to form. To filling out paperwork and recognizing the evil fact that what happens is what happens. Not what in all ideal versions of this would might occur.
It’s the weekend now, in case the calendar has evaded you, and the sister returns from Portland, and I am going to briefly stop worrying about this work trip that is not coming together as it should. I am thinking about the snow that came out of nowhere today, socked us clean in the jaw and has seemingly wandered off to take out some other fellow when he’s least prepared. I don’t know how it happened to be Friday when the parents were right nearby and could gather me up from work and take me back to their place in the middle of the day so I could work from home. No terrorized two-hour slide to try and stupidly take the wreckage of the sidestreets to back to my house. I constantly feel granted access to the path of least resistance and I take it every time because I’ve come ignore the heaving sigh of disapproval I give myself. It’s only me who minds, nobody else, and I’m tired of wearing myself over it.
Three hundred and twenty-nine words.
I am entirely out of words to complete the day. I could talk about my parents’ terrible arguing, my mother’s anger spiking to another plane of existence, before completely evaporating and if you note the fact that it happened, you’re crazy. I could note that being all jacked up on steroids might do something like that to you. I could talk about how J and I hardly talk, it seems, except to lunge at each other and how unsustainable that feels lately. How Okcupid keeps sending me messages that are all some combination of FWB? How thrilling the idea a glass of cold water feels right now. How pleased I was that neither the furnace nor water heater blew up while I was at work today. How I want to like Kahlua, but I don’t think it was meant to be. How my birthday is coming up and I’m feeling like I might even forget it’s happening. I could tell you that I’ve done alright this week all on my own.
Haven’t missed you at all. Whoever you are.