I promise to stop tomorrow. Maybe.
“Did you ever stop to think, and forget to start again?” ~Winnie the Pooh
I’m caught between a rock and a phlegm storm that I’ve been trying to ward off via airborne and water and a myriad of citrus fruits. Yet nothing works and I can feel the snot dripping away diligently down my throat and the mucus just laughs and scoffs. And as with most everything in my life, I’m projecting that this will all lead to a dire and tragic bronchitis/strep thing and none of this has helped my current stress right now, in fact it only makes things worse.
Not that I really have anything to stress over, but it’s just more in the great moments of projection and I’m begninnig to think that spending so much time alone with just a bottle of wine and DVR for company, bodes terribly unwell for my tendency to over think things. Last week, clearly being the best, with the whole being completely ALONE. ALL WEEK. With nothing but the vino and I turned off my crackberry and phone and just spent the week alone in Kris’ apartment obsessing about the inane and using her perfume which is so very Single White Female of me. All the while relishing in the fact that I could walk in, go to the bathroom and not have anyone come in literally 15 seconds after I walk in the door, knocking requesting that they be able to use the fucking bathroom. I also missed out on a weeks worth of ‘Hey there…’ conversations while I’m trying to find my coat or fish the last package of oatmeal off the top of the refrigerator. Case in point: Living alone fucking rocks.
Anyway, without the distraction of other people, sharing my oxygen I’m free to stumble around and with a glass of wine and order Over the Hedge via On Demand and think about every situation and every single solitary outline in such meticulous fashion that I contemplated charts and graphs and possibly began talking to myself. None of this necessitates full on detail of the object of my neuroses, but it all leads back to me just fucking caring. Even when I say that I don’t care, which I say more often and not, out of fear and wanting to protect myself, I care immeasurably and I worry and then I spend my days eating Poptarts and thinking the worse, and caring more and then questioning my ability – which I seriously lack – to convey the ways in which I care and subsequently fear.
Consequently I’ll live up to my title of Biggest Lush (this is the first time I’ve won anything since being elected Anderson Hall representative to the Student Confederation General Assembly during my sophomore year of college. And please stop me when I’ve fully disclosed just how terribly unpopular I have been for my entire life), and drink some more and over think my over thinking (and my Christmas list, because dear lord, I have yet to figure out what I’m getting a single solitary anyone ever and people will hate me and want me dead because I didn’t get them the perfect gift. Ahem) and realize that I still need to chill the hell out and find ways to say things with utmost sincerity and hope that one knows that I mean them.