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 dearly 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, ish, so we eventually settled on chin-length, 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 cups, the latter being a lot more inconvenient but still overall quote better unquote in the grand scheme of things, 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, although being sick and being alone weren’t exactly the most ideal of situations. I survived though, and 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