All of the above.
Which is where this beautiful flaming chariot of failure has brought us today.
This past saturday night was the biggest full moon of the year. If you were a lady or an ocean during the last three days, I am so very sorry for you, because most likely your tides were absolutely bananas. In a related story, I am sorry to all you super awesome dudes out there who put up with one or more of us and or any salty, sexy fishermen (I prefer the gloucester variety, deadliest catch can eat my ass) who dared to troll the oceans so very unfair this weekend.
As the witchy lady I am, I like to spend most days that I feel like absolute shite pawing through various witchy literature that tells me this is the coldest part of the year, I should be huddled around a fire with a goblet of wine and half a pig smoking on the hearth in front of me. I should have friends and or family snuggled up under blankets someone way craftier than me crocheted, and I should be plowing through self inspiring literature and trying out new slow cooker recipes and loving my curvy woman self and letting the rough winds of winter rouge my cheeks with the healthy blush of accomplishment.
I mean the holidays are over, ergo, gluttony is shameful, indulgence is a no no, and it is time to rise grogeously from the ashes of credit card debt and crinkly bon bon wrappers to become the ethereal being I need to embody to greet the first day of spring in an ultra clingy, practically illegal linen-type dress garment.
Pleh.
I find myself feeling oppressed by it all.
I can't even open the document my book is in because I'm so terrified looking at it will reveal the travesty it really is, and I will be so ashamed of it I can't even bring myself to edit it, and in some passionate fit, I'll drag the whole thing to the trash icon and click until I hiccup. What the fuck?! I can't even burn my manuscript in a wicked lavish victorian fit of hysterics? Tearing pages and sobbing while sparks fly, soot and heat streak my face and my hair swirls wildly and fragments of words crackle and pop in the flames? What is my life coming to?
I have worn the same clothes for about three days running now. Bob must think I'm some kind of hela monster grunting and plodding from room to room, which might be okay because he somehow manages to think our bearded dragons are cute.
Maybe he'll be all right with his wife turning into a great big lizard.
I came up wit the crackpot idea that it would make me feel good to run a marathon.
I told a bunch of people, and I ran three times this week (for the first time since october). I thought I was the shit.
Then I went to the gym with bob yesterday.
Bob is so amazing.
He's just totally redone his entire bank of bad habits, and he's going to the gym five days a week, and eating three super healthy meals every day. He even eats fruit, and he hates fruit! He's a foxy number anyway, and already I have terrifying visions of exactly how retarded hot he will be in about six weeks time, and all the lookyloos will be scampering around the purple palace of planet fitness perspiring perspicacity, making little perfumey winks and excuses "Oh, I'm so sorry, however does this big machine work" *titter* "Your arms are like sooooo big, they must be the size of my waist!"
My imagination sucks in technicolor. Often IMAX 3D.
Anyway. So I think I'll be cool, and I get on a treadmill, and I start it off, and I can barely run for twenty five minutes (three-ish miles)before I begin hallucinating, and the marathon I picked is 13 miles, and it's in may. Is this just the dumbest idea ever? I think it might be. I think I told everybody I was going to be a rockstar, and then I picked up a triangle and stuck my dick in it.
So I spent today moping for a number of reasons.
Those I have already listed, and the usual bubbling cauldron below the surface: ohhh how can you be almost twenty eight and done nothing with your degree? You suck at writing and your ears are really big. You will never be actually in control of any part of your life and will probably wind up fat, homeless, alone and most definitely scribbling on the walls of your cardboard box in your own fecal matter, and not in the marquis de sade/geoffrey rush from quills mega sass way.
So I am reading bonfire of the vanities and hating most of humankind and wanting desperately to live in a bret easton ellis novel and flickering through the colorwheel of jealousy over any of my friends who travel or live in sf right now and don't need to worry about silly little items like seasonal affect disorder because it never ducks below forty-five degrees in northern california, and the sun doesn't leave to alone for five months like some terrible parental figure, but flirts with you on a daily basis behind the seven veils of every gossamer type of fog you can imagine.
I wanted to drink red wine and read and at least be depressed in a sort of enviable locked in the turrets sort of way, but I couldn't even manage that. Instead I watched 500 days of summer (which was pretty forgettable) walked the dog and didn't even make it into to town for coffee like I usual manage on my days off.
You know.
I wonder sometimes if I'll ever look back on blogs and journal entries from this time period of my life when I have kids, and if I'll invent a time machine just so I can go back to this moment and punch myself in the face for being so bloody self wallowy.
*oof*
