The Title That Allows Her Dinner

By: L.

Oct 18 2016

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Category: self

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Aperture:f/2.8
Focal Length:7.9mm
ISO:100
Shutter:1/1 sec
Camera:DSC-P93A

Would you care to be alerted that this post is going to be emotional? Rather than a summarily dry report of the days events, I feel…fucking…f…

That cry I wanted came.  It has not been a torrent.  It has not drowned a desert.  But I have the sticky, post-tear rings settling below my eyes and the feeling that something has shifted, if only a burr becoming further embedded in my chest.

The job, the job that has caused me such infinite consternation, that was meant to be a safe haven and instead has impacted me negatively in almost every possible sphere, is moving.  It is moving much further away from home along roads I do not know.  It is moving next to the downtown corridor’s thick knot of highways.  To take a bus from here would take 2 hours a day, each way: impossible.  Stupid.

The sister says this is the time to get over this driving thing.  This feels on the level of someone suggesting that I get over my gravity thing. It’s a thought.  I can be fine, and then, suddenly, my body decides I am about to die and we must auto-eject.  It’s not right, but it is.  And I can’t make myself get up five minutes early for a cup of coffee these days.  I can’t make myself put foundation on my face for fear I’ll have to look at it in the mirror. I can hardly make myself bother to brush my hair for fear that I’ll end up without any to brush.

Last night I dreamed that everyone I knew had died or was gone.  This is it, I thought, this is how it is to be alone.  I was wearing a dark blue sweater and I touched my arms, to be sure they were still there, that my body hadn’t slipped out with the rest of them.  Okay, I said, okay.

And then I watched this: //player.cnevids.com/embedjs/52f2ad0169702d21a5080000/video/58050f7db57ac31622000036.js
http://video.newyorker.com/watch/the-new-yorker-shorts-oscar-winning-short-stutterer
Which feels keenly close to home tonight.  A step behind. I find myself just waiting and waiting and waiting to say what needs to be said right now for it to be of any use.

I don’t want to do any of this anymore.  Not life, of course, I always want to do life.  Always intend to be the last girl standing.  However, the job racket is wearing me down to the bone.  This search to find some local place that will pay me decently and fairly and on-time to do work I am willing and capable of doing seems to be impossible right now. All the help in the world doesn’t pull rabbits from hats.

I want to be stable.  I want to be stable.  I want to be stable so I can grow.  I was doing so well, but I feel like if I stop clenching I’ll let go of the side of the pool.  I feel so life and death.  I feel so siphoned down to the dregs.  I feel.  Which is good.

Two years ago, someone I’ll never meet smashed my car in the middle of the night while I was sleeping.  It was irritating, frightening, made me vulnerable against my will.   But it ended up being a financial boon.  It ended up being positive and productive.  Maybe this period of shit and head-fuckery and shame and failure is building me up for something.  Maybe there’s a message.  Maybe I’m a writer if only just to know that much.

 

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