Let's just say I spent the weekend remembering to breathe and let it go. I am my own ghost, this indelible imprint of one moment of horror that repeats ad infinitum.
I stayed home today. Went to bed at 8:30 last night and woke up feeling worse. Could have gone in and survived okay but would have spent 7.5 hours staring at my hands. It was sunny out and I wanted to take Electra out on the deck and read clouds for a while, or maybe rake leaves into unlikely patterns. I did leave the house to return my library books and then visit Kroger to bring home apples and marked-down organic romaine heads and marvel at why the world needs bacon Easy Mac. That may be as far as I get today. I only allowed me to stay home with the idea that I'd be working on that 80000-page study guide but, as usual, lied to myself like a crazy lying thing.
I like to think about if I had been an eccentric trust fund brat and my life would be exactly like this, with the little house and my fourteen-year-old car, only I wouldn't have to work and I could enjoy the angle of the light in my living room at ten o'clock every morning and walk walk walk all over town all day long listening to Chiquita and not be such a gourddamned stress muffin because the idea of another fifty years of this is unreal and makes me cry if I can't distract myself with shiny things.
I'm sure no one intended to send me into a(nother) blazing spiral of self-loathing with an off-hand comment. "nothing against, but." I'm afraid to go to bed yet as will just lie there with my face in the pillow again and think blank, empty thoughts. Did you know I'm nothing if I'm not pretty? Absolutely nothing? J can tell me I'm a beautiful girl, and my real mother will agree, and the boy will say anything in the hopeless hope that he will someday find his way into my bed, but they lie, lie, lie to my face. The stars won't lie to me, and neither will they sing.
Diet Squirt is like Fresca's unacknowledged bastard sibling. That's not necessarily bad.
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