but I think it’s just aging and too much sitting in a chair every day. I woke up with twinges, and the walk to and from school to drop Lila off was mostly fine, but there were warning pings. Then I went food shopping, and when I lifted the box of cat litter into the cart, I almost fell on my face. Loading all of the bags into the truck was murder, and I had to stop three times to sit. When I got home, I had to get Tyler to unload because just lifting the bag with the loaf of bread and bag of corn chips was agony. Thank goodness he wasn’t working today, or we’d have some spoiled milk and a stinky truck by now.
Still, we gotta eat and I have everything to make red pepper–piñon enchiladas from The Border Cookbook, including locally grown poblanos, corn, zucchini, and yeah, I’m an idiot. If you hear screaming and crying on your way through Ohio, Michele and Lisa, it’s just me rolling tortillas and wishing for stronger drugs.
with a bag of frozen lima beans shoved down the back of my jeans, icing my royally horked lower back. I can’t stand up straight at all right now, and am still too hungover from Saturday’s tequilafest to even think about a shot of anything to kill the pain. I’m really hoping the Vicodin in the cabinet from three years ago still has a little oomph left in it, because this hurts so fucking bad and ibuprofen isn’t touching the pain.
I want ALL of the ice cream and hot caramel and hot fudge and toasted almonds and JIMMIES.
I want something. It’s causing me to grind my teeth and squint my eyes. My thighs feel cold and disconnected from the rest of my body. Longing is such a strange thing, especially when you can’t give what you’re longing for a name. It’s interesting to watch, but I’m afraid to go to the dentist.
So frustrated I actually just said “thank you so much for sucking every last little ounce of joy out of the day,” to my eight year-old.
And I meant it.
(via the Wall Street Journal)
Maybe it’s school starting tomorrow. Maybe it’s the smell of burning in the air every evening. Maybe it’s how little time I gave to my writing this summer. Probably it’s all of that and more, but the upshot is I am one melancholy mufudder right now. I need a good cry and a month alone. Guess which one is more feasible?
Why am I still awake?
Ran into an old friend tonight and we hugged. I now apparently need to burn myself down to get the cheesy cologne stank off of me. My head is killing from the reek. WTF, old friend.
Three hours of tossing and turning in bed this morning has me feeling like my eyeballs are glazed with sand. If only I had used that time to take care of the dozen things I lay there worrying about, maybe I’d feel less monkey on my back.