10 minutes on the clock. What comes out?
First of all, my pants feel too fucking tight and I’m annoyed about it and if anyone in January puts pressure on me to lose my quarantine weight, I will throw them off a bridge, ARE WE CLEAR?
Marine mammals have blubber to keep them warm, to keep them safe. They have thick skin and layers of fat and maybe I was supposed to be a marine mammal.
I have never been small. I was the first Tall Girl in elementary school and, actually, I was very proud about it. I wanted to be the very tallest, I wanted to be able to lift my nose and come away with a cloud-mustache. It felt like the first Interesting Thing about me, you know?
“Hello. I am Danielle and I’m very tall. I suppose you’ve already noticed.”
I have always chased those Interesting Things. I was tall and I loved animals and I read a lot of books, and that’s what was interesting about me at first.
(I am still tall and I love animals, though I have not read as many books this year as I should have liked. I keep reading the same story over and over again, even though it hurts.)
Six more minutes. What else?
Second of all, possibly related to the quarantine blubber, my thighs have never rubbed together the way they have this year. Gross? Maybe. You’re free to opt out. But fuck, the skin of my inner thighs feels nearly constantly rubbed raw no matter what I am wearing. And I’m thirsty, sure, but also: how could I ask anyone to contend with the cheese-gratered reality currently between my legs?
After my First Date With a Girl, I promptly had a panic attack and texted my best friend:
“I’m going to die alone.”
She’s the quickest and funniest person I know, so she responded:
“Honey, you’ve been out for, what, three months? Let’s not condemn ourselves to the gay celibate monastery just yet.”
She’s probably right. But I’m going to need to figure something out about all this chafing.
(I feel gross and honest today. I’ll tell you all my secrets for a laugh, I’ll pick all my scabs at you, if you’d like. You probably wouldn’t, I don’t know why I think that’s a thing.)
Three minutes, but I need to stop and change songs on Spotify. Hang tight.
Two minutes and some seconds. Let’s go.
I am nervous about my grad school applications. The stakes feel so fucking high. What do I do if I don’t get in, you know? Because I already tried to run away to a theme park in China once and it didn’t work. I don’t know where else to go if this doesn’t work. I feel like I am running out of ideas, of schemes, of possibilities.
One more minute, but maybe deadlines and time limits are arbitrary?
Breathe. Notice your heartbeat.