(no subject)
I think that two of the things which have defined "growing up" to me the most are having to take care of myself when I am sick and having to carry various licenses and cards and keys and codes around with me in my purse and in my head. I used to carry lipgloss and a (maybe) couple bucks in my back pocket and I had no idea what my social security number was. And when I was sick my mom would cook for me. Those really weren't the good old days at all. I don't mean to imply that they were. I'd rather memorize numbers than go to Randolph Elementary School ever again, but they just seem so different and remote and in a way sort of lovely. The thought never occured to me I would have to take care of myself when I was sick, and the thought never occured to me I would need to have/know all that crap all the time.
When I clean, my mom says I'm 'ratting'. I have been ratting lately. I can't stand the dust and mountains of crap that my room is filled with. It is driving me to distraction. I want it all to be clean and bright and sparse and well-organized and I want to know what is in every drawer, on every shelf and not be continually surprised by the appearance and disappearance of papers and shirts and car keys.
Off and on lately I have felt like a bitter old dried up shell of a seventy-year-old woman. Except I don't live in the past. I am just dried up and bitter and getting a bit angular about the face, staying winter-pale, coughing up yellow gunk. Today, I can't imagine ever being in love again. I am the Crone.
When I clean, my mom says I'm 'ratting'. I have been ratting lately. I can't stand the dust and mountains of crap that my room is filled with. It is driving me to distraction. I want it all to be clean and bright and sparse and well-organized and I want to know what is in every drawer, on every shelf and not be continually surprised by the appearance and disappearance of papers and shirts and car keys.
Off and on lately I have felt like a bitter old dried up shell of a seventy-year-old woman. Except I don't live in the past. I am just dried up and bitter and getting a bit angular about the face, staying winter-pale, coughing up yellow gunk. Today, I can't imagine ever being in love again. I am the Crone.