Batter My Heart

By: L.

Feb 21 2012

Tags: postaday2012

Category: self

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Frozen solid.  Not a great thing to be.  Trying to take it bird by bird.  Will probably do better with some lunch in me.  Have to be convinced it’s not a super idea to go get a hamburger just to have it over and done with.

I will have a great deal to report later this evening.  So much so that I hesitate to go into too much detail now and waste my word count on willowing back and forth.  I have epically wasted my day and I will do my best not to waste my night, though, obviously, I don’t have the conversion skill required.  I’m going to be happy for a little bit longer.  I’m going for…

…

Strike that?

Here’s what I know right now:

I love Mumford & Sons and they can fix just about any malady of heart or of head.
I have a throbbing, one-drink drunk headache.
I totally washed and straightened my hair for nothing.
I really do not have anything I want to say and would like to fall asleep in this bed and I think it’s possible I might be depressed because as of this moment I would love to just go to sleep and sleep and sleep and sleep Rip Van Winkle style until I am well and truly past my troubles.  I do not want to face them or change for the better, I just want to avoid them.
I shall have to set my alarm and wash my face and get dressed and be human after I’m done here and that sounds revolting.

Sara Benincasa was so nice as to respond to my letter to her about how much I loved Agorafabulous, which I did, and said my words meant a lot to her which meant a lot to me and is, frankly, probably the only reason I’m currently upright.  That and this stupid project to write 500 words everyday apparent from now unto eternity with no release or escape.  Be a nice little annex for Billy Joel’s hell.  Or is it Hell?  I currently don’t give one fuck.

I am smart and lovely and good at trivia and a cheap date and nobody gives a fuck.

I’m dumb and terrible and ruining lives and destroying everything I touch and nobody gives a fuck.

Oh, god, the words are coming so slowly.  I feel like I have alzheimer’s or some kind of fucking aphasia, but I think you wouldn’t remember the word aphasia if you actually had it.  Unless it’s ephasia.  Spellcheck says no.  What a useless paragraph.

This isn’t the beginning or the end.  This is the part you hate.  The part you usually try and sleep through.  This is just the living, the burning through of every inch of every wick of every day.  You can’t circumvent the process.  There’s no get out of jail free card.  You get every goddamned minute and they’re yours to spend how you wish.  Including on your bed, writhing in pain, silent in the candlelit darkness.