Post-shower bath (sitting in the bathtub while the shower beats down upon my head contemplating life) and bent over my mountain of clothes on the floor this evening, I glanced back at my reflection in the Ikea mirror and noticed I'm covered in both zits and bruises. It looks exactly like I'm shooting heroin into my kneecaps and armpits and rubbing meth on my lips. I'm not a drunk anymore either. I don't make gravel angels in liquor store parking lots or wherever that was. True, I eat poorly. Lately I live off what my fiance refers to as "butter tacos" and multivitamins. But I digress. I'm 33 years old and it's not haha funny to have lipzits. I keep reading that Earth is a schoolyard and we come hear to overcome and learn lessons and blah blah blah. Well knock knock Supreme Being: I have extracted all the knowledge I can from eyelid pimples. I'm glad I could experience this for you and I hope spirit and mankind alike benefits. I'd like to graduate now.
So when not in a shower-bath, I spent the weekend lolling (in its archaic definition) around in bed, on the couch, and occasionally on the loveseat having mental situations on various social media sites hoping someone would contact me. I fantasized about running through a crowd and off a balcony like the broad in my news feed recently. I hadn't the cover charge it would cost me to gain entrance into anywhere with a balcony, though. Also, I hate crowds. Why would I want to spend my last moments of life running through one? Running is not a hobby of mine for that matter. Furthermore, would I have a cocktail before I did this? That would cost money too, and it would mean relapsing. I wasn't sure of the protocol on relapsing before death. I suspect I'd lose all respect not already lost from leaping off a building.
Finally, I called up my dad and went to breakfast with him to remind myself that I was loved. Over my Sante Fe skillet he was outraged by the proportions and inclusion of bell peppers of/in, we discussed my brother's upcoming (possibly) wedding. "I'll be there," he said. "Your mom, your sister, the kids, and you - I guess." I stuffed red potatoes in my face wondering if he had meant to say he guessed the whole family would be there or just me orrr? Oh well. I was enjoying iced cappucinno and his company. I would not throw myself off a balcony this weekend.
So when not in a shower-bath, I spent the weekend lolling (in its archaic definition) around in bed, on the couch, and occasionally on the loveseat having mental situations on various social media sites hoping someone would contact me. I fantasized about running through a crowd and off a balcony like the broad in my news feed recently. I hadn't the cover charge it would cost me to gain entrance into anywhere with a balcony, though. Also, I hate crowds. Why would I want to spend my last moments of life running through one? Running is not a hobby of mine for that matter. Furthermore, would I have a cocktail before I did this? That would cost money too, and it would mean relapsing. I wasn't sure of the protocol on relapsing before death. I suspect I'd lose all respect not already lost from leaping off a building.
Finally, I called up my dad and went to breakfast with him to remind myself that I was loved. Over my Sante Fe skillet he was outraged by the proportions and inclusion of bell peppers of/in, we discussed my brother's upcoming (possibly) wedding. "I'll be there," he said. "Your mom, your sister, the kids, and you - I guess." I stuffed red potatoes in my face wondering if he had meant to say he guessed the whole family would be there or just me orrr? Oh well. I was enjoying iced cappucinno and his company. I would not throw myself off a balcony this weekend.
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