all around the mulberry bush.

The week starts on Sunday….

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Sunday . Oh well ouch.  The regular painful intervals that remind that I am indeed an adult female surprised this time around.  I am the drugged, the stupefied, the foaming mindless meat shield who fires on limited synapses.  Dropping an envelope behind the tansu becomes sisyphean and I leave it becoming  exasperated over a nothing.  I know this well, I know this 26 years of my life well.  I refuse to get dressed and I won’t leave the house for the purchase of that iron & vitamin combo I polished off last month that could make me feel slightly better.  Car–>Store means walking, concentration, standing, or requesting someone else go… and that would require speaking so much that I may have to use multiple sentences, perhaps multi-syllables to explain what I need and where it is and how to find it.   Fuck it.  I’ll just be weary.  Ennui, chocolate, rarish steak,back to bed happy I retrieved the busted laptop from repair shop.  I spend my time clicking whilst in bed but it isn’t the useful kind.  Nothing sinks into the brain it all collects on the surface and slips easily away like the skin on a pudding.  Hating the occasional wrench to the guts but strangely enjoying riding it out.  I laze & quietly bemoan in a rather Victorian fashion.

Monday spent in a haze, dwindling brain meat atrophied by ill feelings.  I am enveloped by an inability to consider answering phones, emails, stringing thoughts together even.  I think “Perhaps womanthis is  a forced STAYCATION”.  Then I think “Oh god I hate that fucking non-word”  I narrowly avoid bouts of rage over cute-ified language driven by marketing.  Everything I am is due to a lack of verbal acuity at this time.  I realize I need the television to switch off the mind.  I have no DVD I wish to watch.  I watch actual television.  Not surprisingly, that hurts worse.  Nothing amuses and I feel that I cannot be distracted.  Until it appears!  It (bling, sparkle) wins all  best of awards!  Wretched made for TV movie is mine!  Well it barely squeaks ahead of that one with the teenage boy who finds internet porn and loses perspective on life and his girlfriend and college scholarship and the respect of his mother and he goes into therapy with his parents and comes out a winner.  No Meredith Baxter here, this is  stronger stuff.   No “bring my baby back from the cheerleader who divorced my terrifying husband with two lives who kills the babysitter…. or DOES he?”.   A movie “made for women” with Harry Hamlin and Lisa Rinna?!?  Oh this is perfect.  It’s about his sex addiction.  He has a secret hideaway for handjobs,  a place his wife finds, where when she enters to discover his sin the tense music tenses tighter…. there are stacks!of!porn!magazines!and!dvds!with!people!fucking!! I may never again need to marvel at the utter shite people create for “women” as this one takes the cake.

Sadly there was no cake to be eaten whilst watching Sex, Lies, & Obsesssion. This is quite possibly a national tragedy.

I am either better or worse for the watching.  I busy myself and refuse to consider it all, because it becomes a slippery slope into a morass of fear that my interest in watching parts of these horribly low brow little dramas means I will become infected with belief that it is my life which is a horrible string of purchases-in-bulk & ill considered notions and that it is their lives which hold normalcy and meaning and I must emulate that to find a path to releif.

…Oh that old thought pattern again.  Hello old shoe.  Hello comfy like a sweatshirt thoughts…. goodnight.

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Finally finding my brain and reinserting it into the empty hole in the head Tuesday morning, brain seems not to really fit the way it is supposed to.  Too tight here, sloshing about over there in the temporal lobe region….

I will spend the day trying to catch up , battling the desire to run back under the covers.  There is no catching up.  There is never catching up.  Everything must be done now, today, but it cannot possibly happen, I am behind.  I am lost.  What I really want to do is leave the machine and screen and turn to the worktable behind that computer desk and work with my hands.  I try it a moment, I realize I am out of my depth there still and without balanced work in the email telephone scheduling stream of things I cannot possibly do something only for me.  I am barely clinging to the hours by hours of the day, fingers clacking telephone answering.  I am tense.  The headache is there.  I think “I really should work this out with something made of rattan or bamboo in hand, connecting repeatedly…. ah but no.  That’s inappropriate.

Is it inappropriate?  Perhaps I could just…. no. It’s not a good plan.