I had lots written today but I’ve got nothing at this point.
I’ve been called incompetent by one of the most chauvanistic, elitist pieces of work in this town. And it shouldn’t bother me and it doesn’t so much personally as it does just in a macrocasmic way. Like, it makes me sad for humanity that people like him are even humored at all.
I’ve been told numerous things that people who’ve done their best to destroy me continue saying to anyone who will listen about how all of their bad behavior is my fault, and how they have no culpability in their own predicaments because of what a piece of trash I am.
My kids have told me they hate me for insisting that they make literally the bare minimum of effort in the hygiene that’s a prerequisite for being included in the social contract to which we are all subject unless we choose to just move into a Unabomber shack in the woods.
One of my kids trapped our cat in a toybox because she wanted the cat to sleep with her and wrongful imprisonment seemed like an okay way to achieve that objective.
I know, intellectually, rationally, that I am not but today I feel like a straight up failure.
In so, just so damn many, domains of my stupid wasted life.
Most of all, I am sad and worried for my kids. But that’s not even scratching the surface. It’s just what’s on the tippy top of an angst-burg the size of the iceburg that took down the big T.
It will get better.
It has to get better.
But tonight I am sad. And hurt. And more sad.
So it’s a serious Minchin night.
The comedy will resume tomorrow.
If I’m totally honest, though? I kinda would love nothing more than to be the smallest doll in a set of babushka dolls. I mean, just crawling into my bed and weighing myself down with an excessive amount of comforters not for heat but for actual weight is restorative in and of itself. If I could be safely entombed within versions of myself that increase in size and functionality through every passing layer?
God, that sounds positively heavenly to speak plainly.
A girl can dream.