Roman Scandals: Day One Hundred Fifty-Seven

1015891_75021387Somehow I’m going to find a way to make this work.

I’m going to ignore the fact that someone’s mad at me at work for blowing them off like…a lot…and they sent me like a FINAL NOTICE I HATE YOU email that I am also ignoring.

I’m going to ignore the fact that my throat is burning.

I’m going to ignore the fact that I have two laptops on my bed and a swirl of ideas taking over my mind and a cat sitting here, thinking her terrible cat thoughts.

I’m going to ignore I’ve got a 7am breakfast at the meeting tomorrow where said pissed-off person will probably be.

I’m going to set all of that aside and write.

Just not yet.

Because I’m not going to wedge it in here.  I don’t feel quite right, obviously, but I have my mandate.  Excuse me while I take note of the self-savaging pun.

I feel overfull of I’s.  I feel very in need of a vacation, of an escape, of a duck and cover worthy explosion.  I think everyone in my story is quite dour and I don’t know how to fuck them up and make them suddenly feel animated and sarcastic and print-worthy.  Nothing has to begin with me, but everything does, you know?

Like this damn diet.  It was fine, I adhered today, but I am pretty sure I’m forgoing the exercise tonight.  I think I’m allowed the break if I’m also going to try and get a piece together for writers group tomorrow.  I have been focusing so much on just doing the outline, top to bottom, to knowing what’s going to happen so that I can have a framework to start attaching the pieces I do have.

Still, I feel fat-ter today, as I glance back over papers I wrote on Emily Dickinson and Poststructuralism and “snow language” and the red and the white ten years ago.  I am flashing back to those feelings as I strode across campus, my second to last semester which was a semester before my friends, though most of them had already pulled away and made other plans and other living situations and I remember almost passing out from low-blood sugar in my dorm.   I remember thinking that I was going to get out of there and be back to normal, I’d set my whole lonesome heart to rights.  I remember when I found out I was going to China.  I remember the grilled ham and cheese sandwiches.  I remember a few parties, a few games of shuffleboard, a few sunken hopes.  I remember a place where I might have been something, and I couldn’t find a way to let myself transcend.

10 years later and I can’t open the door.  Can’t graduate.

A cheesecake is missing and I didn’t eat and she didn’t eat it and where did it go?

I have to call the therapist.  I have to do a lot of things and I don’t do them and it comes back and fucks my life over.



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