Adelaide
Oh, day of minor disappointments, how I wish to utterly forget you.
I did my part. I was cute. I had my painted nails. I had my side ponytail. I had my peasant top. I was be-neckaced and all my stars were aligned. Nothing.
Got nothing but a minor sunburn, a bag of sweet corn, and some sweaty, nigh on post-coital looking eye makeup to show for it. Nobody worth any notice showed up. I got a lot of looming creepy guys, but what else is new? No monotone, no nice guys, no prospects. This whole falling in love aspect of the Great Plan is apparently no easy checkmark.
I have nothing, I suppose, to do about it but resign myself to try again next week. Maybe if I just go and sit after 17 weeks some rock will be overturned and out will pop eligible bachelor hooray and hoorah.
If I sound cynical and irritable and heat-stroked, you are a winner. Please collect your prize at the door.
Tomorrow doesn’t look good, either. Gotta just let it go. I have a certain degree of nausea and my keyboard is on a slight delay so I think twice or five times as fast as I type. Funny how bothersome that is.
I wish I had something better to say. Can I blamen not getting in my full 500 words on my incredibly shitty keyboard? Os tahat faire to…
Okay, refreshed the browser and we are back in business. I wonder if this absence of vague description is bothering me, too. I can wax poetic for miles, but we’re just talking facts of the day right now. Seems like the truth is a big old drag. Who wants to read about mediocrity and getting by and okayness, anyway? Who wants to read about someone who has risks that are on this sub-level. These risk-free risks that spur me on.
So I want to cheat and paste in an excerpt from my old way of blogging, my nothing said but my heart bled type of page. I feel shitty about this but my hands hurt and I just am over it tonight. I’m missing my heart being in it. I’m missing not having to level with you about the fact that I’m not loved, not focused, not trying, not smart, not fixing the problem. I’m not facing the page. I’m running from it and its protective hand. I apologize, but what better answer is there out there but the faking it and the making it? Give up and go home?
I might have let the brownies burn. Hmm.
The hospice man died yesterday after I left early for the day. And that, apparently, is that. He is past-tense. Like so much trouble and so much misfortune washed away by a good sleep. Now starts the behavior of the griever, the decisions about what is acceptable for the family to do and how they can be. The service won’t be for weeks, after he is cremated and his event, the event he lived for, somehow proceeds without him.
There’s that.
