Something Awful About Love

14 Feb

Here’s the deal:  I’m writing this at 12:30 AM today and wish I were sleeping.  Dinner was General Tso’s chicken and crab Rangoon from China Express for the second time in forty-eight hours.  (One dine-in with company, one delivery alone.)  I’ve been sexxx-punching my brain with Lady Gaga, Kanye, and Robyn because it helps me stay focused on the several hours of InDesign and Photoshop work I’ve been gazing into yesterday/today.

 

Sometimes I get to be lazy on Sundays, and sometimes Sundays make me do all the work, and sometimes I am just mad at being reminded that Saturday and Monday are never as far removed from each other as I want.

 

February helps none of this.  This month always feels time-crunched, desperate, eons away from spring.  Some days I swear I’ve hallucinated every memory I’ve ever had of sunny weather because winter feels so undeniably endless.  I’ve started to think of sidewalks as permafrost.

 

My room is increasingly cluttered with things friends have given me – handwritten words on note cards and scraps of lined paper, mix albums, old jewelry, dresses – pinpricks of warmth worth remembering when most days feel pushed to the edge of an icy cliff looming awful in my panicked head.  Reminders of who’s closer than arm’s length.

 

Sometimes when I step outside the cold yanks me hard by wrist and tells me how much it’s going to enjoy wringing my neck.  I wanna bite its hands, growl at it to fuck off; if I’m gonna suffocate it’ll be in my broom closet of a bedroom, lungs filling up with trinkets and music and ballpoint-inked words saying that everything I’ve ever wanted to believe about myself is true.

 

And that’s where I’m at this Valentine’s Day.

 

*       *       *

 

Note:  So two robots punched each other, one thing led to the next and we didn’t get the guest post up yesterday – you know, these things happen.  It’ll be up this coming Sunday, cross our little hearts.

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