Just give me a day or two. Just let me have this. Don’t…just don’t.
This isn’t Grumpytown. This is out and out Bitch City. Population me. Lady Mayor: me. Fucking sanitation crew: me. And none of us are all that goddamned pleased to be here but nobody voted save for an asshole who wrote us all in.
There is no reason in particular for any of our municipal duties, but we’ve written up the charter and this is where us and the fish live.
Anger is a sign that you’re meant to pay attention. I am trying to pay attention. I am just…it has to be food. Everything is accounted for and tracked as best I could – I even tweeted the pizza place to try and get today’s neapolitan pizza. To no avail, apparently. So best guesses were made and I have a little wiggle room, and I ate less because of it and I don’t get to just eat until this goes mute so I…just want to scream and hit things and spin around madly until I crack my head on something and there’s every sort of blood spattering everywhere, so mad they have chase me, they have to catch me, hold me down to screw my jaws shut and then I want to scream so hard I pull the wires apart like some kind of maniac. Break out of there like metal is paper. Like Aeolian gusts are taking hold of my throat. Banshees’ll need earplugs. Like I want to break out of a straitjacket and roam the streets howling and kicking soft things in their faces.
This is rough when you have to, for propriety’s sake in an attached condominium, basically never raise your voice above a whisper and it’s maybe 30 degrees outside. Still.
I hate…I don’t hate…I am reasonably unnerved that I have 900 tabs open to search for how many calories are in things and I can’t be sure so if I fucked up, I can’t know, I can only suspect. So I am sitting here suspecting myself of a failure that can’t exist because there is nothing being attempted here except trying to live and…I am just so annoyed right now. I think it’s because I keep believing things I’m told and they aren’t…It’s fine. I know this will pass. It’s fine. It’s nothing. It’s birthday blow-over energy and I’m lonely and it happens and fuck everybody who looks at me and doesn’t get the fact I have this roaring maelstrom inside my soul, fuck ’em with rusty cutlery and salmonella-infected wiffle bats.
So it’s not allowed. But it’s in me. It’s all in me, holding on as I hold onto this hairpin trigger. Is it going to go away? Or will I just wake up and see what I’ve done?
Fffffff.
There’s a guy on OKC who asked about whether or not I’d seen Sudden Manhattan. This is, up there on my list of favorite movies. It has Adrienne Shelly in it, my favorite actress. I have not responded. He is old. I don’t want any of him or this. This is not what I should do, lonelyhearted maenad that I am, but it is what I have done.
I’m supposed to have a story done. I’m supposed to work on the novel. The novel! SUP-OSSSSED TO. Everything feels creepy and overwrought and full of effort. The long-haired, red-haired, quite tall girl put on her purple rubber boots messy with mud from the last rain and got her coat that reminded her of Christmas and her ugly, dumpy hat and waved goodbye to her family before going out the door to face her ever-impending destiny.
If there’s anything I hate more than everything, it’s seeing the work. If you’re good enough, you don’t see the struggle. There are no draft marks. No red ink. Stray pixels. You don’t feel the exertion, the sweat, the muscles dragging mud-encased souls across the Carrara marble. If I’m the good enough I need to be to have you, I don’t break.
More bullshit that is dancing in sparkling high heels on my head.
I keep trying and things just flake off. I can’t make a thing root and live.
This whole life is a dust bowl.
