nothing compares to a quiet evening alone


So, Sunday:

a pot of boiling water, a glass of cold matcha latte, and a dose of Morrissey singing-whining on TV.

Also: a fireball of anxiety whistling and crackling somewhere, somewhere, somewhere.


Today I cut my hair short.

My hair, which I dearly love, used to flow past my waist, the frizzy tips nearly touching the two sacral dimples right above my bum. My hair, which I still love, now hangs parallel to my chin.

I wanted it to go even shorter, ear-length like Amelie’s, but the lady with the scissors was wise enough to ask if I was sure, and I was sure, ish, so we eventually settled on chin-length, which was just a tad longer than Ramona Flowers’.

(I am manic but not dreamy. I need therapy.)


Today I finally threw the garbage out. Molds, molds everywhere.


Today I realized that it’s been a year since I switched from tampons to a cup, the latter being a lot more inconvenient but still overall “better”, by which I mean it is cheaper and less wasteful and mostly tolerable. It’s not too bad.


I just switched radios from The Smiths to Paramore. Just let me cry a little bit longer.


Sometime between my last log and today, I got sick. Like sick sick. Fever, chills, the whole nine yards. I never knew for sure if it was The Virus. I did not have a test kit at that time, and I was obligated by law to isolate from the world, which was not a problem because I hate everything about the world anyway. Being sick and being alone weren’t exactly the most ideal of situations though. But I survived! Here I am, well and alive, shoutouts to my haters.


The weeks that followed were some of the worst weeks of my life, shoutouts to my haters. I broke down many times at work. The CEO (probably, most likely) flagged me as their neediest employee ever, which sucks, but whatever. I have few fucks to give, anyway. Two, three at most.


My hot pot is done. I made another glass of matcha with milk. Ain’t it fun?

Photo by Erik Mclean

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