Hi Darling Ones,
I woke up in a pit of loneliness and despair on Friday and I have yet to climb out of it. I’m trying. This weekend I’ve done all the things one should do: I exercised, I ate vegetables and fruits, I read books, I sobbed my face off over the death of Rayna Jaymes on “Nashville,” I wrote thousands of words while listening to Matthew Sweet, I practiced, I slept like a champ, I showered, I talked to a friend and all my plants, I told Wendell “yes, we will put belly rubs on the agenda,” and I bought a ton of plastic sadness garbage (and one sadness record).
But here I am, the saddest and loneliest motherfucker on the goddamn planet.
I feel myself slipping back into my lonely cycle. I’m exasperated by anyone who wants anything from me. I only want attention from people who will only give it to me if I asked, and I will never! I only want to spend time with people I can’t, namely my BFK. I want to do emotional self-harm by texting exes and asking, why not me? I want to be left alone to prove that I am right about being the worst unlovable monster and therefore deserve to be the loneliest. I want to keep everything tucked deep deep down inside and fake happiness and then maybe I can con myself into being happy.
What I don’t want to do is write teary blog posts about being lonesome but I know if I don’t get past this one I won’t write any of the other things I want to write about here. I also don’t want The Youths and The Olds to come over for dinner even though I haven’t seen another human in eleven days but I know if I don’t I might shrivel up and disappear for good.
I want everything I cannot have and nothing I do have. I am unpleasant and irrational.
Hoo, that’s some ugly stuff. It feels kinda good it get it outside of me and put it some place else.
I have to go move the Sadness Garden off the table now so we have some place to eat all the Chinese food my mom will be bringing with her. At least I don’t have to cook.