"I mean the letter P, not the pee that comes out of you, Mom!"
A day in the life
of a bored housewife.
Is enough to make
you eat a whole cake.
I have a whole flock of mundane items flapping around in my head.
none of them are worth relating, trust me.
They are making so much noise that I can't concentrate, though.
(and the kids are rivalling them, from the outside.)
So, I guess I should let some of the crap spew forth--
it might alleviate the pounding in my skull.
I finally got my Christmas decorations packed up over the weekend.
I put them up so late that I wasn't in a rush to put everything away,
but now that it's done it feels gooood.
Finally got the kids new toys all crammed into their room, too.
I really need to take their whole toy box and just put it in the garage.
I hate when their room gets messy...so it usually doesn't.
I ditched the bird, too.
Did I mention that?
Sent it off to my friend's house, to live with her bird from the same batch.
Good riddance to the thing, too.
My head does not feel any better.
I guess I could close my door
and turn on some tunes.
I may need to vent, too.
Just random venting.
Something to get my thoughts into a more aesthetically pleasing state of disarray...
The sound of a chair being dragged across the tile floor above me--
is like the grating of sandpaper against my
Glitches with my choice of music are making me tense...
So instead, I'll build a playlist out of the same crap I've been listening to for too long.
Running a bath for the kids, my mind feels dull and thick.
As the soap turns to frothy hills on the surface of the water, I have an urge to slide into that womb-like space and be held by it.
My lids heavy, I step back and dry my hands on a white towel.
I don't see myself in the mirror--
black t-shirt...does it go all the way through me?
Why do I feel dark inside?
Does it matter, though, really??
Why am I so obsessed with always knowing why I feel certain ways?
Isn't this the very definition of madness?
Sinking so far into myself that the calendar seems to be marked by my moods, my ecstasy my...tiredness.
I would rather be writing something funny or sexy right now.
Little feet marching
two tiny soldiers invade the fort of me and conquer my weak defenses
Finished with their bath before I could even finish my funk.
Or consider a bit of a solo fuck.
Fuck the funk.
I wasn't in one before I sat down to write, and I'll be damned if I'm going to be in one while I write.
I am going to add my (super fucking huge) list of new links today.
Well, after I finish writing this
and after I finish...doing something else.
It's almost time for the gym.
Gah. See what I mean??
Thoughts as scattered as a stack of pages in the wind.
Thoughts as shattered as a dropped pane of glass.
...stepping on the shards with bare feet as you run forward...
I don't believe it's a cure-all, but I do fancy a bit of an orgasm could send a few much-needed drops of serotonin into my crusty old brain.
It is drying up, scabbing over, cracking, peeling--
turning to dust.
I just sneezed, and it was dry and flakey...
I think I saw last night's dreams on a the flake that just fluttered past.
Maybe some Vicks would help.
Maybe some tricks would help...
or some licks, some pricks, some hick(ie)s...
I should probably stop talking like this or I'm going to get your panties all in a twist.
I know mine are...
I think I'll go to my happy place.
The grassy meadow with unlimited and hangover-free beer,
the one where Eddie Vedder is my "massage therapist" (wink-wink).
And where you check your worries at the door...
Oh wait, meadows don't have doors
and I don't have any tangible worries.
I think I'll just imagine fucking the breath out of someone.
No, I'm not going to name names.
I'm a lady! I do NOT fantasize and tell.
And Like I said, I need to change the subject.
Have a happy day--