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She couldn't wipe the scowl off her face. Yesterday, she had cursed a toilet paper roll that kept falling off the holder. Today, she banished the cats and wished them - not hers.
She wasn't doing great was a vast understatement. She wondered if she'd been in this tight of a spot before and was certain that she had been, so there's some comfort for her. He couldn't be blamed anymore. Who gave a fuck. She loved someone, appreciated so much about them, and when she asked to move closer, he skipped the fuck out.
Her aunt had gotten pneumonia so at least they weren't coming down today, but perversely even that vexed her - she could use some care and distraction. She could use some drugs. She wishes she could just double her Wellbutrin and call it a day- numb Lala achieved, but alas alas.
It was a gorgeous day.
dammit.
"oh, you're wearing the clearwater shirt too."
"yes. we both are."
It didn't matter to her to write, but it was all that kept her from collapsing. It was important that it meant something even though she was prepared for it to all go away. She had been riding on righteousness for a while thinking she could use this pain to get into the Paris Review. Now, she just wanted to get through the long days.
It sucked to recall the shroom trip. She had looked it up, and it was called "ego death" that feeling that she had had of "so this is it". For many people, it gave them a sense of euphoria and a new lease on life. For her, it just made her tired. Looking at the fotos from that day, she did kind of look dead. She didn't care about anything but base survival. Did she care about that?
So many people gave her "you're great". "I love you", yet it was dull.
another sentence written.
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