At first I was afraid. I was petrified… Well, you know the rest. I’m not going to begin with an apology for my absence. No one cares. It’s not like Hemingway is posting shit here.
Let’s sally forth, shan’t we?
I’m eating — slowly, a FiberOne chocolate brownie because it’s a taste of chocolate that sort of takes the edge off my skin crawling diet hell. I have a society page event Thursday night which will be ripe with photo ops and I look like a fat fuck from, well– fatfuckville. And by “diet” I mean I’m drinking two chardonnay a night instead of my usual curl-up-in-a-ball and sleep it off nightly three count. I’m currently paying $136 a month to ignore a chi chi gym membership that is a five minute walk from my front door. No, instead I am choosing irrational “just eat less/drink dinner” thoughts to keep the man boobs and flab at bay. Last week I was caught in the workplace forking a chunk of chocolate cake with inch thick chocolate icing while scrolling web pages for ‘compression t-shirts.’
Oh. My workplace has a Pride parade float this year. I’m on it and standing next to 20-somethings who have been fussing like wet hens for a week with “if I shrink the XS t-shirt it should be just the perfect fit.” I want to snap their 27″ waistlines in half and fill their boy-like torsos with Nutella and marshmallows. But I digress.
How can I possibly remain relevant in a youth culture that has left me standing — with a lot of baggage, at the station? I catch myself in mirrors and don’t know who this person is. Or who I have become. Depression still is the undercurrent here; it has sucked the joy out of any single hour of my day. My Facebook world window would suggest otherwise because that is all stage dressing. Curtain up! Smile, Neeley; sparkle!!!
I hate people. I’m filled with regrets. I project sweetness and light but behind my eyes is a vast dark depth that frankly scares the shit out of me. My niece graduated university this May. She sent a beautifully framed photo of the event. It’s that photo’s youthful ‘got the world by the ass’ glow that keeps me going now. I don’t want her to get that phone call. The one about her dead uncle.
Jesus. How morbid. Someone tell a joke. I’mthisclose to getting dressed to go the store for strawberry ice cream. Strawberry ice cream fills the void until Mercury is out of retrograde or until this hocus pocus, bloody man period brain cramp moves on.