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The cats were going to drive her nuts, and it was always a reminder of her pity and poor boundaries. It reminded her always of the second marriage - such a metaphor. She liked the cuddling, but that was all. There was an outside one now that needed caging and his balls cut off. She was going to try not to metaphor that one. Their bowl of water was frozen. She hoped the neighbor was back today and she could care a little less, but she knew even that was temporary. These cats were going to be cut off if/when she moves. Was this her town forever? Where would she go otherwise? there had to be someone cool. There had to be.
she was such an upper lately.
Bringing joy and positivity to every room into which she flitted.
The love she felt ignited her and its rays warmed all who saw her.
Ha! a lie of course - she was a fucking mess. It had been two months - well four days until two months - since the thing that disrupted her life had disrupted it. She was a shit writer full of sub-anais level dribble. She spent all her days inside her head and her house.
Last night had been the last night of her vacation that she pretended she was on - her foiled Ireland venture. She was always monumentally glad she had not gone to Ireland because it saddened her to imagine being sad and then the bills toupee, but a part of her knew that was a big fucking lie. She was just scared.
She had been listening to this gossip person who was pretty smart on YouTube. That's how she had spent her glorious days off - not exploring museums, walking in new paths, taking up pickleball - but eating and drinking and listening to lives that might have been slightly worse than her own.
Today she was back to work. That would happen in about 1.3 hours. She hated work. She hated not working. She was a fucking hater. It was ok to admit that she - like all the humans in the planet of earth - was a mammal. She enjoyed cuddling, and she enjoyed relationships.
It was going to suck with her mother and aunt and sister, but there was nothing she could do about it. Yesterday had been her "fuck it - let's roll" day, and she'd drunk like she was in Ireland - any excuse would do. She blessedly was playing music again so that was something to celebrate - although she wasn't going to play "Purple Rain" for a while now - that one was to be retired.
She recognized that so few were in her cool head - that her family wouldn't even know or really care what she thought, what music she liked, her dancing and exuberance.
(ouch, that reminded her of her last relationship - which she hopefully was finally letting the fuck go - please please please god).
Her job was to reflect them. Her job was to listen to them - to be pleasant and entertaining and to not rock the boat too much. No wonder her pot often exploded. No wonder.
She often pondered that if she had a daughter, wouldn't she be obsessed with her and wonder what was inside that head and celebrate everything? She wasn't so sure about neices. She had a neice, but she wasn't crazy inside that head - although she loved the nice and thought she was cool to talk to.
Ah relationships.
"Talking's what we're here for Kristy. Talking makes the world beat. It's just when you say the same thing's over and over that it gets boring."
She was quite boring. The same thing all the time: "can no one ever think I'm interesting - can no one see me - do I always have to act to get the penny?" yawn yawn yawn. (but she loved herself so tenderly fiercely that even typing it made her weep).
She had cried so much yesterday. Let it all out shug.
He had been hoisted to the back burner. She had made sure that she had flooded any chance that he wouldn't think she was a nutter. Was it so wrong to be a nutter?
She looked at the photos of New York and wished she was in that surprising snow. It had been glorious - that day of snow and the peace that it brought and the 'no worries, you're not going out - cozy up and read your Fitzgerald.' vibe. (and Fitzgerald depressed her a teense - such a fucking great writer - better than she could ever aspire to - and also, such a sad sad wistful writer. it fucked with her a bit.)
It was heartening to not want to kill oneself, but surely there were higher bars to achieve. Last night, she mad made herself go out on the town. She went to the good $1 oysters and the pho place. She looked around, and there wasn't anyone she gave two shits about knowing more - maybe the Japanese professor-types but they drank tea so that bored her. She wanted revelry and gut honesty and safety to exude her every nuanced thought.
She wanted to be loved.
really. (not just in concept)
but but but it seemed that that was going to be something that was shelved for a while. In the meantime, she had to stop thinking about him and the possibilities she had foisted and start trying to interest herself. It seemed she'd be alone. The pickings were starving.
The cat that she called old man with the fluffy tan fur and the face like a grump grey tiger was going across the street to get some non frozen water. She'd watch it. There was a creek.
she was hella depressed, but she'd been depressed before and knew this too shall pass.
and if it doesn't, oh well. breathing until the very end. She was going to fast today. It seemed dramatic and so her. There had to be a path back to a body that wasn't a repository for eating emotions and drinking bitter sorrow.
So grateful - grateful as hell - for the bubble
knowing it will
pop
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