As. Per. The USH.
Honestly, there is something deeply off about me. Some reason I am so freaking quick to fall. I suppose it could be the obvious: that I’m looking here earthly for divine satisfaction, something I so desperately need. As with all things, it could be solved by me getting my rear in gear and get back in step the tha Lawd. But, Jeeeeeeesussssssss, you know me. You know what I need. You know I don’t speak Spanish.
Good grief. I am just re-re-re-rehashing my fatal flaw, my terminal illness of the mind. Human freaking connection. So very much wish I didn’t need it, but the giant gaping piece of my soul waiting for it chortles heartily at that, wiping a laugh tear from its fictional eye with the fictional crook of its fictional index finger.
I wonder if the scientists interested in cloning are at all that way because they want the human connection, but, like me, find no one out of their own mind that they are comfortable with and can talk to and not mother father over think every single stupid little exchange. I mean, I even do that with myself, argue back and forth in my brain and to the air like a crazy person, but I’m still me and, even though I think me is an idiot most of the time, I love me. No doubt about it. “Two chocolate cheesecakes.” “FAT.” “I love myself and I hate myself. But my diet starts tomorrow.” HA. It’s in that pea-soup fog of possibilities that I die every time. The I don’t know, maybe, could he, couldn’t he guesswork BULLCORN. “What kind of guy tells you exactly what he wants? What kind of game is that?” THE KIND OF GAME I WANT TO PLAY, KELLY KAPOOR. But not with Darrell, obviously. Stupid.
That’s another thing (looping back a bit). I need to sweat more. I need to get back to good compartmentalization and shiz and perk up the buns. What am I even talking about? This is just word vomit. Not even that. This is word runny nose. This is stupid.
Good thing no one is ever gonna read this! Agghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Back to shrink-ing myself, which is why I started writing this in the first place. Because the spaghetti is tangled and weird. Again. As always. But more so right at this particular moment.
How silly am I? One freaking night, and I’m sold. Through God’s brilliant plan of keeping me safe by my weird one-sided lurve type things, I suppose it could be possible that I am hungry again. It’s been a couple of years of this wish-wash city crap, and my self-preservation monitor (which, honestly, is not that hip to the tha biz, but kicks in every once in a blue moon) decided “Hey! Let’s get you on another ride! This one’s running on fumes.” But, really, self-preservation monitor thing? Really? Is this the wisest choice? Repeat the cycle? Read too much into everything? Start the whole thing from scratch just to open old wounds again and again and again? Stop picking the scab, Me! Let it scar.
But if I let it scar, I think that would be a little worser. Or at least more lasting with its disadvantages. Shutting down the emotional system, turning all inward and crusty and fit for servitude on the Jolly Roger of DEATH AND CALLOUSNESS AND LONELY LOATHING. Perhaps the scab needs to be irritated. Maybe it’s begging for it so that I can stay alive. In a constant emotional stage of ughhhhwahhhmluuuuuerppppp, but alive nonetheless.
Whatever. Didn’t help, didn’t solve anything. But it did get a little bit of this ridiculousness Pensieve-d out of this brain of mine, so it can float around and stew in a slightly different emotional soup tonight. Not minestrone. NOT MINESTRONE.