The Fire Was Hot


I have this imaginary broom and I am trying, whilst wearing an imaginary babushka, to shoo my slavering, screeching demons off my doorstep.  They found my address today and are doing all they can to get in.

Stamp those feet, sing that song, just don’t open the door and let them run in behind you.

I ate a pizza.   A wee one.  It isn’t the end of the world, but I wish that I could have at least jammed a carrot in my mouth between steaming slices.   It was 10 pm and I hadn’t eaten but half a sandwich since noon and suffice it to say, it could have been worse.  My 10 minutes helped to offset it a smidge.  It wasn’t a caloric Hiroshima, but my body knows different over the past month, and it didn’t necessarily want what the mind insisted it eat.  Not all of it, anyway.   I at least heard the millisecond of disagreement before I ravenously cut a third slice.

But, Mildred and the Mental there was driving which was both very positive and then, later, inexplicably, full of a a weird, excessive panic episode that frustrated the shit out of me.  A road I used to drive regularly, but haven’t, recently.  Yeah, no reason, except the anticipation of it (and perhaps listening to “Girl on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown” while this was happening.)

I can only congratulate myself in that it happened, this complete feeling of disassociation overtaking me, of panic and desire to do something completely irrational like drive into traffic, of being completely vulnerable and of needing to hide in the middle of a four-lane road, of being scared fucking shitless for zero reason, I didn’t do any of those things.  I just kept it together, turned around in the stupid subdivision I had no reason to turn into, and within a minute, was back at it.  It doesn’t destroy me, but fuck, does it try.

And! And! There was weird, excessive torture porn being shared at writers group and I had a weird, completely not excessive reaction to it which I actually did my level best to verbalize.  The response was, “Gee, I suppose this would be harder to read for women.” and…I had to let it go.  All I can think about is, sure, some people are evil and take revenge on other people’s families after 20 years of being locked up.  But a vivid description of those actions is not a story I cared to read.  I told him that if it wasn’t that he was a good writer and we were in group together, I wouldn’t have gotten past the first page, which featured a woman being raped.  That’s completely true.  I find it completely gratuitous and…sick.

This isn’t the sort of thing he ever brings, but I just…yeah, I don’t feel like I have to ooh and aah over well-written violence for violence sake that doesn’t serve any greater purpose than a man loses his family so he leaves prison and destroys the man and his family who hurt him 20 years ago.

I was stressed.

So I think the old habit emerged and I just thought, I’m low on calories, I just want to stop the gnawing and the blinking and the hunger and the feeling.  It did that, but not entirely.  I am sitting here, quietly waiting for tomorrow.  A tomorrow not guaranteed to be better, but not guaranteed to be worse.  And a day that will have some food in it.


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