Saturday 7:00 am she wakes.
No energy and the weight on her shoulders of too much too late.
She’ll never catch up with life in a million years now.
Might as well just fucking give up. Heats up the skillet.
Looks for the package of potatoes, finds she left it out in the night.
Weighs the odds of eating them anyway, but chickens out and dumps them in the garbage. What the fuck’s she gonna eat now? There’s a tiny bit of shrimp cocktail left from the other night. Breakfast of champions. The dog starts whining for it. The dog whines like a fucking hyena sometimes. You’d think he was dying. He’s just been fed and everything. Babies are still sleeping at least, thank god. Fucking internet’s out again like it is practically every Saturday. Tries to call the one friend she knows will be awake but the damned ringer is off as always. Everyone else will be sleeping. She has to have caffeine. She wishes she could just have whiskey instead, but makes a coffeepot full of strong black tea. There’s a pain low in her back from cramps and from sitting oddly and from sleeping at the foot of the bed again. Curls up in the corner with a Vonnegut book that her ex said she’d hate but which she doesn’t. Puts on a Bowie/Eno compilation to complete the dissociative experience. It’s almost time to get out the spoken word William Burroughs even. It’s a cynical surreal disjointed sort of morning. Somehow she’s got to buck it up today. Pay some bills. Do some laundry. Start digging her way out of this apathetic dusty smelly mess. Has to be real again. Has to be real again. She hasn’t been real in about a week now. Forgets how she managed this the last time. Somewhere there’s something that’ll lift this grey. Someone somewhere knows the magic word or maybe there’s a bit of music that’ll do it or something on the television. Can’t find the fucking remote and it’s been ages since she watched television. It’s July and the fucking mosquitos are back and she’s itching like mad. Covered in mystery bruises as usual. Sallow skin, dark circles around pretty eyes, ugly little feet with calloused little heels, sitting there in her purple faery t-shirt wishing anyone in the world thought she were remotely important at this instant, not that she’d believe it if they said so. It’s probably just the hormones talking. Tomorrow, she’ll be an egoist once more. Today she is wretched and sad and lacking in energy and full of words that no one wants to hear. And nobody loves you when you don’t love yourself, they say. And she just fucking loathes herself right now. For being weak and beaing helpless and feeling sorry for herself instead of just getting up and fixing it and because no one needs her. She’s merely an interesting afterthought. A footnote. Best supporting actress in the movie version of everyone else’s life.And everything irritates her right now. And she wish the sun weren’t up right now. The cooler’s too cold, but if she turns it off it’s too warm. And isn’t that the story of her life? She’s tired but she can’t go back to sleep and sometimes dying sounds nice just for the rest that that involves although she’d never do it in a million years. She could sleep for a million years if only she could sleep at all. She could scream for a million years but no one would ever hear it.No one’s listening. No one’s home. Go back to bed, little girl. We’ll tell you when you’re needed. It isn’t now. It’s never now. You’re a lifetime benchwarmer is what you are. You’re fucking royalty, all the same. You’re Princess Afterthought,. Queen of things that people shove into desk drawers and forget about and books they mean to lend you but never get around to and invitations that get lost in the mail. Goddess of apathy and indecision and three quarters of a job well done. And now the babies are up and it’s time to smile and yawn and pretend you’re trying. Pour the cereal, turn on the cartoons, go into autopilot, because sometimes love is robotic motions when you’d rather not move at all. And so it goes. Thank you and good night.

Dreamt I drove by an office building and saw my old friend Matt. Then I saw another, closer, friend of mine, who was damned happy to see Matt. Then my ex showed up and he and that friend attempted to beat the crap out of each other and I started to interfere but then I realized it was a dream because in real life no one’s ever given a shit enough about me to fight over me. So I decided I didn’t give a shit either. And then I walked away. For some reason Matt was naked in this dream.

(detritus)(poetica)(myth)(opinion)(divination)

Eight of Swords (Interference): Chagrin at the unforeseen consequences of prior decisions. Criticism, censure, and the imposition of external restrictions. Confusion leading to powerlessness. Inability to focus on the crux of a problem and free oneself from a difficult situation. Being hamstrung by a past failure or humiliation.

Seven of Pentacles (Assessment): A pause to check on the progress of your labors. Making difficult financial decisions. Exercising patience and perseverance. Evaluating the status of your work and your options for the future.

(detritus)(dream)(poetica)(myth)(opinion)(divination)

…that I didn’t need him anymore.

…when I’m just kind of defeated coming in the door.

My soon to be ex-spouse has gone nutfuck and won’t see his own children because he thinks it will punish me somehow. I have overdue library books and overdue videos and paperwork that should have been mailed in ages ago. I have a returned check notice for a check my bank never told me about and that there should have been funds for over a mooth ago. My house is a wreck, my life is a wreck and I am so, so tired. I am so all alone. I know I have friends right now, but I reserve the right to feel very very alone, because I can’t talk on the phone or email with friends and attend to my household at the same time. And there’s just so much to do. And I’m PMSing like mad. And I just have to keep repeating “It gets better, it always gets better, and it could get so so worse…”

It’ll get better, it’s just life is all it is.

Was entering in an order request at work the other day, and one of the items
was a tie dye kit listed as:
Tie Dye Kit With Shirt
Tie Dye Kit No Shirt.
Lucky for me I made a last minute sweep for accuracy, because I apparently
had entered the following:
Tie Dye Kit With Shirt
Tie Dye Kit No Shit.
I’m sure that would have been very appreciated coming as it does from a preteen oriented company, eh?

Women tend to be assigned a social role and expected to stick with it. If
you are strong and assertive no one recognizes the sweetness in you. If you
are warm and sweet and loving no one ever takes you seriously or thinks you
can take care of yourself. And so it goes. From time immemorial.

Corbid’s Blog: http://members.cox.net/corbid/exponentialdetritus.html

..but I’m seriously digging on Casablanca right now….

Corbid’s Blog: http://members.cox.net/corbid/exponentialdetritus.html

Pout.

An outtake from

a commentary posted at hipmama:

“‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’ — we understand that scorn to be one of sexual rejection. But what results when a woman’s intelligence is disdained just as cruelly? Gifted young women like Monica {Lewinsky} dwell in a purgatory of thwarted ambition. They find that while braininess and aggression are not encouraged, artful manipulation is available as the most powerful device in the feminine arsenal. Monica’s byzantine designs to further her affair with Clinton are the brilliantly neurotic symptoms of someone, who, as we say, ‘has too much time on her hands.’ This big girl should have been mentored to run the world, not run little games around the little men who inhabit it.”

To which I’ll add my own Clinton comment, which is that you’ve got to admire the man in that he was getting work done the whole time. Seriously. He was like on the phone to members of Congress and stuff the whole time he was, ehem, conducting business.