Mortadella

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I wonder if when I read this post this time next year if anything will be different.

We think and say that sort of thing a lot, especially during this time of year which encourages looking back and reflecting. Somehow the evolution of this blog has built in and forced upon me daily venting and yet avoided real, institutional analysis. If you had told me last year that this would be the year I’d quit my old job, I would have laughed and then gotten very nervous and suspicious and scared.

Right now. I am compiling evidence that further change is needed in my life.  I want to be so convinced that I feel desperate, I want to be logically compelled, I want an emotional geas, I want a physical impetus that will drive me into February and beyond.  But right now, for reasons that mostly involve nerves, suspicion, and fear, I am just compiling evidence.

Tonight was a pretty good smack in the face with all three thirds, though.

We went to a nice sushi restaurant for a surprise party for my sister.  It ended up not being such a surprise as the time was changed on us so we got there just a bit late, but nobody made it awkward and my little sister – among her peers – she’s a bon vivant.  I was already feeling like there’s something continually and legitimately wrong with my throat, and I’ve been feeling just generally full and weird, but able to sort of tie a ribbon around it and look marginal.  Acceptable, sort of.  However, in the process of getting her a birthday present today, I also got pizza and soda pop.  Exhibit A: as to why I don’t need or want Diet Dr. Pepper in my life anymore: as we take the freeway to the restaurant, I feel so jittery and panicked without reason or recourse, I have to calm myself down every thirty seconds that we’re not crashing.  Exhibit B: I immediately order potstickers and a Diet Coke, it just falls out of my mouth and I sip it while feeling like I might be dying right here in front of everyone, like maybe my heart will just explode, oh, I think, that’ll be a fucking bother for everyone.  Then, I calm down a bit more because this isn’t tenable and eventually realize, yeah, the boys on the other end of the table are single and looking for smart women, but everyone seems in clear agreement, they are not looking for us – or me.  They will scour the mountaintops for attractive, intelligent single females, but my name is not in that hat.

It’s not even said.  And I get it, I get the reasons.  I get the whole spinstery vibe, I get the whole yay cats and video games and not driving and the messiness and the physical blehness and all the other things that don’t appeal.  But what fucking kills me is that I’m supposed to laugh about it.  Just feisty and charming, but via some social agreement, not fuckable.  I mean, fuckkkkk. I think about you, sir, and I despair.  Not only because the 5000 reasons that will never happen, but because I won’t risk it.  I should put my own name in the hat.  But I don’t think I can.  Because nobody’s comfortable when I put a toe out of line, I’m not comfortable, but, hell, is this…it?

Hell may just be another ten years of this side of the table.

Slainte!

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