It appears that I am having “one of those days.” One of those days that make me want to spit in the face of people that I deem useless. Do I logically understand that this feeling is tied to exhaustion and hormones? Yes. Do I care? No.
It all starts with me feeling like I have no time. When am I supposed to clean the house, do the laundry, cook, raise the children, write, and go to school when all I do is work? The house is getting social services bad and it smells funny, kind of like dog, fried chicken, dirt, and pee. Why can’t I have hairless animals who wear Swiffers on their paws? And why can’t they smell of Gain or cotton candy? Would that be too much to ask? “Yes,” you say? Well, I hate your stupid face for thinking that.
Another slight issue I am having is that I am stoned out of my mind. Not on any illegal narcotics, but on a sleep aide. I am Benadryl stoned. My head feels like it is tethered to my body by a string. That string feels like it is being held by a sticky-handed toddler who is clapping at the unicycles at a July 4th parade. I am trying to hold it together, but I am so out of it that at any second a penguin may walk up to me and offer me a Snickers bar.
I don’t even like Snickers bars, you stupid penguin!
Also, this penguin will be wearing a baseball hat. I do not know why. I just accept it to be true. I hate its stupid face.
The response to the mood:
Today is the kind of day that I need people to act their age. I need people to act like fucking grown-ups. It isn’t hard; I do it almost every day. I bitch about it, but I do it. The world is not there to cater to you. It doesn’t hold you against its bosom and tell you everything is fine. No, sadly the world just slaps us around and makes us feel worse. It is our responsibility to accept this and then rally to fix it. It is all we can do. We take a hit and then we get back up, again and again. Grown-ups accept this and move on.
Do what needs to be done and then move on.
I write this in the midst of some existential temper tantrum. My inner four-year-old has her fist clenched by her side and she is stomping her right foot. She isn’t getting her way and it has made her unpleasant. We all have an inner four-year-old that is id and rage, slamming doors and screaming in the recesses of our mind. I have to remind mine to stay quiet. I banish her to the dark places to hide out with the accountant that sometimes follows me, repeating those dreaded numbers: 17, 19, 25, 29, 36. I am an adult, and sometimes against everything I feel, I have to continue to act like one. I wish that other people would act the same way.
So, I leave this short blog on this note. Grow the fuck up and be nicer. I’ll try, and so should you.