pointless personal warbling

As my career progresses I should acknowledge that the pointless personal warbling that feels so good to put to paper, glowing or otherwise, is no longer appropriate here. That this place shouldn’t be my catharsis anymore, it has to represent me as a professional to anyone who might have read one of my pieces and wanted to learn more about me. Each post should be a coherent and compelling essay.

But just…today? Today I’m just spent. Today you are my dull diary again, and I urge anyone who cares to read any other post to find out if I’m a good writer. I am, but sometimes even a professional, prideful chef wants to eat a damn Big Mac.

So.

Today I called my the only member of my family who speaks to me. She’s not blood, but she might as well be. She remembers my mother, loved her and brightened the last years of her life. Do you know how much harder it is to grieve when there isn’t anyone to grieve with? No one to splice in the happy memories with the sadness you’ll forever share? I miss having a family. But it’s a dull ache now, at least. Mostly.

Halloween is tomorrow. I have never been so miserably indifferent to the day. I bought some candy, but it’s hidden in a box on top of my bed so no one can eat it but me. That was intentional from the moment I walked in the store.

My daughter delighted me earlier this month with the declaration she wanted to be a mad zombie scientist. I sat in front of Amazon until my tailbone ached, tracking down kid sized black rubber gloves, goggles, white coat, wig, zombie scars…she looked over my shoulder at the end, saw an Elsa costume advertised in the corner and BANG…no more awesome zombie. Stupid frickin’ Elsa.

Don’t order your costumes from China, no matter how appealing the price. They are not mailed by plane. Frankly I’m not sure they’re using a boat either. I’m pretty sure her long blue dress with the ice-like train has been bundled to a piece of radioactive debris, cast into the ocean to drift east for a few months. So I sat tonight jabbing a needle into a long abandoned blue Goodwill dress that was once a part of I assume an ice skater or dance costume. It smelled like pee because it’d been in our garage where everything now smells like pee because my puppy is absolutely stupefied by rain and refuses to pee outside. I can’t sew for shit, but I was able to attach a few broken pieces to other pieces with thread, so it’ll do.

We are invited to a party tomorrow. But I had awkwardness with the hostess, which a sturdier woman would have dismissed by now, but I am a tender flower and still have this dull little stone of hurt feelings and disenchantment (wait…people think I can be annoying sometimes? WHAT? No no no no….I’m ADORABLE. Everyone LOVES ME. My entire self concept is based on that). Plus I just….ehh. People. Noise. Children. Politeness. Being a pleasant guest and conversationalist tomorrow would require a song and dance that I don’t have the strength for. Plus the people there are my friends, good people, and they don’t deserve an insincere song and dance anyway. But I’m…prone to melancholia. Yeah…that is way better than saying “diagnosed five times over clinical depression” that, while it doesn’t not rule nor ruin my life, is part of me. Doesn’t matter. If I don’t go, I’m a whiny little baby and will make the awkwardness worse. And if I don’t go, my kids get left out of a tradition they’ve enjoyed nearly their entire lives.

My book. They asked me to write for them in April. My proposal has gone forward and been sent back with changes requested…four times? It takes only the tiniest question by the publisher to add a fresh month onto the process. This next is the fifth I think. I know it has to be perfect to warrant purchase in a collapsed publishing world. But I’ve got a growing fantasy, of busting through the head publisher’s office with my foot, leaping across his desk on my belly, grabbing his collar and hissing close to his ear:

“I will make you money. I will be amazing. My lifetime of being a weirdo and having deeply set mental issues has made me talented and delightful. So. Stop. Fucking. Around with me.”

Which likely won’t communicate the deep appreciation I have for being given this chance in the first place. I’m quite grateful. Indeed.

I spilled sticky water on my mouse and broke it.

There. Empty. Feel better. Thank you.

 

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