After posting yesterday I turned on the news. It was the first I’d heard of Paris. My brother warned me not to watch too much. Only 8 hours away by train. And a threat at Amsterdam airport. Raids in Belgium and Germany. Borders shut.
While most Rotterdamers were out celebrating their version of St. Nick’s day, I stayed away from the screaming kiddies and parents. I never did paint; by the time I found all my paints, my brushes, my extra materials, the canvas, and got the area cleaned up and ready to have a go, I lost all enthusiasm for the project. Maybe it was the news. Maybe it was just perverse me, who’s been rearing her head a lot lately. Or maybe it was the 98 messages in my inbox that I had to get through. Whatever the reason, I hibernated with games and DS9 yesterday, refusing to get out of my jammy-jams for anything.
I smoked a little too much. I ate a little too much. I even drank a beer. Yes, it was a day of indulgence all around. Nothing out of hand; didn’t even smoke an entire extra J, the ‘extra food’ was a regular sized meal, and the beer was kept to one. Still, I feel fat and stupid and indulgent of my own whims this morning. No doubt it would be better for me to continue on with my tight-assed monitoring of myself, riding myself on the smoking issue, beating my body with as much exercise as I can squeeze in. A little leeway yesterday means I’ll belly-ache all the more today – dangerous. Can’t muster more than a ‘so what’ and a shrug this morning. Doesn’t really seem important in the grand scheme of things, you know? Who gives a fuck if I carry an extra ten, twenty, thirty or more pounds? Does it really matter if I continue to smoke or not? No. I ain’t gonna solve any fucking world problems. You people don’t need me fucking sober. I sure as fuck don’t WANT to be sober. So why am I doing this again? Oh, yeah. I passed a number that meant automatic inclusion on the sobriety ride; oh, you smoke that much? Then welcome to the ride, please keep your hands and feet (and opinions) inside the car and to yourself during the ride. If you feel queasy, vomit away. We’re happy to clean up your vomit as long as it’s SOBER vomit. Vomit when you’re high and we’ll make you mop it up. And anything you lose along the way – you wallet, your creativity – is not our responsibility. You should have had a better grasp on it in the first place.
Oh, fuck you.
Wonderful fucking time to get fucking sober, isn’t it? I hate this fucking life. Not mine so much right now, but everyone else’s. If everyone else was dead I could just sit and smoke all day long and NO ONE would say it was wrong. In fact, I’d set THAT as the new norm. Meet a survivor who doesn’t smoke? I must get them smoking!! Why aren’t you smoking? It’s NORMAL. You’re not NORMAL if you don’t smoke in my world. So get puffing. Puff, puff, cough and sputter. There, now. Isn’t that better? Don’t you feel better? I do.
As far as I’m concerned, let me just go. When death comes too close and causes my body too much pain, give me painkillers and an easy death. Fuck you for wanting me to want anything else. It ain’t worth it. It’s all a lie. Marriage? When 50% plus ends in divorce, I think we can take the entire idea of ‘marriage’ and call it a lie. It’s ‘until death do us part’, not ‘until we get sick of the sight of each other do us part’. Fuck you for making it a lie. Fuck you for telling us all we can get ahead in this rigged carnival game. Fucking carnies. Never fucking trust ’em (I JOKE, I JOKE! Got nothing against carnies).
When I make my oatmeal every morning, there comes a time when it’s boiling that enough moisture has been lost and the heat is JUST right so that the oatmeal kind of bubbles up slow motion and then exhales with a ‘pah’ of oatmeal breath at me. That’s what I feel like right now – that ‘pah’ exhale. Insubstantial, ineffective, weak all the way around. Just blowing hot air at people’s faces. Pah. You’re mean and nasty and I don’t want to be near you. Pah. I don’t believe in anything right now. Pah. Fuck. Pah. You.
My brother has been steaming ahead, writing out Dutch language flash cards and working on music and writing and keeping up with shopping and bills and his doctor’s appointments ALL AT THE SAME TIME. I’ve been loading up free one hour trial games on my computer and playing in my jammies. Opposite ends of the spectrum again. I am told thank you for thinking of him as an inspiration, but stop trying to live up to what he’s doing. I am told I’m doing okay as I sit picking belly button lint. It ain’t easy. My restlessness is reaching fevered pitch every night. What was once a ‘I wake up around 10 p.m.’ has become a time I can barely keep seated. I shift my weight around every 15 seconds, trying to find a comfortable place for my body to rest but nothing works. I barely watched Doctor Who last night ’cause it hit during the show…Glad I record it; maybe I can watch it this afternoon when I’m not so fucking antsy. And tired. Antsy and tired at the same time. That’s what’s hard to reconcile: I’m yawning these huge yawns and unable to sit still at the same time. If I could fall asleep standing up, I’d do it. It would satisfy both ends of me right now.
Mom always told me I tried to burn the candle from both ends. At one time, I took that as a reprimand of my lifestyle: the late night parties and early morning work hours. Now I see it as a metaphor for a mixed episode, which is where I think I’m dancing these days. Both sides are burning, melting me away. I’m so fucking tired this morning and it ain’t even 6 a.m. I gotta get some real rest. Soon. I just gotta stop all this. Isn’t there a safe place for me to go while I wig out again? Fuck, fuck, fuck.