...Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke...
I've started biting my nails. I've always bit my nails sporadically, but never as an unconscious impulse. I also tug and twirl my hair, and check repeatedly for split ends.
What's new? Nothing. Jobjobjob, runrunrun, sleepsleepsleep. I think I've been reduced.
Last night I ended up shit-faced and passed out in my clothes (headband still in). i didn't make it into work until 11:30am--in a shirt-dress, skinny jeans, big earrings, and aviators. I looked like Lindsay Lohan's mom.
I I I, me me me.
I take Martha running at the overgrown golf course past City Park. She flies like a wee little wind, ears flapping and happy face on. I haven't eaten red meat in one month. I'm becoming a conniseur of tofu, tempeh, and tamari.
I've been sleeping with a 42-year-old veterinarian since breaking up with Lea, 3 months ago. I'll likely be leaving that tidbit out of THE BOOK.
My mother wants me to come home. I want to go home. I want to be a lump on their couch, fueled only by pot, Ohio apples, DVR-ed marathons of The Soup and Bad Girls Club, and naps. I want to read tabloids and share beers with brothers on the patio. I want to kidnap Cousin Sarah and ambush Cousin Margaret in Plain City. I want to gorge myself on vegan milkshakes and falafel at Tommy's.
I've been recalling frequently that Hunter S. quote--the one where he says that he always felt comfort knowing that he could take himself out of the world anytime that he wants to, with one shot.
I'm not terribly unhappy. But I'm not all here.