i guess that’s why they call it the blues (thanks, sir elton)

I did not know my body could hold this much sadness.

(Somebody said that already, right? Somebody smarter, probably a long time ago? I don’t recall.)

I did not know that I could sit at a bakery with the remnants of seasonal vegetable quiche* and latte on my tongue, plants and babies and dogs in my sight line, my own body clean and fresh from shower scrub and a nice sweater… I did not know things could feel so inarguably nice and that I could still feel the panic clawing its way up my throat, the grief thundering in my veins, the possession to stand up on a table and scream and beg.

For what?

I think, probably, for forgiveness.

(*I was led to believe it would be a butternut squash quiche, but I believe it was actually yellow squash and zucchini. Carry on.)

I don’t think this is depression, not today. Depression sits on me differently. It’s heavier to a point of near fucked-up coziness. I think this is probably closer to grief and it confounds me.

I didn’t know that I could sit beside a sunny window on a nice October afternoon and listen to “Loch Lomond” and still want to rip my heart out of my useless fucking chest cavity. I did not know I could wake up with a fat ginger cat sleeping on my ankles and still feel like I was dying.

I have to get out– of town, of my skin… I don’t know which is more pressing, but the point is I can afford to do neither. So, I’ll just sit here and itch and weep into a mislabeled quiche.

I think I still yearn for school, honestly. I just want someone to tell me to read. I just want to be fucking peer reviewed. My senior seminar advisor in undergrad would bring us M&M cookies and other snacks to peer review. I just want to eat M&M cookies and talk about metaphors.

I was such a fucking disaster in undergrad and then for a long time afterward. And, like, I guess, now still. Did I ever tell you about the time I paid $39 for OkCupid premium and then deleted my entire account with the same three hours? Because I am lonely and terrified and I think I am going to die unless someone touches my neck soon and also fucking fucking fucking fuck.

But I don’t want to do it on a fucking phone screen, but I guess that’s how we do things? Look, I am a fussy snob and I HATE IT. Can’t someone just see me across a library in perfect October afternoon lighting and notice my tattoo and come to tell me their favorite line of Whitman and then we can hold hands and kiss over fallen leaves and toasted marshmallows?

(I am fucking gay.)

But I feel like poison and so I dare not reach out. Dare not try again. And, like, that’s probably fine, yeah? What’s that old expression? Some of us are dancers, some of us cry into quiches?

I am expert quiche crier.

(I can dance, too, though. Only really the one sort and I only know how to spin to fast songs. I cannot imagine someone dancing with me and taking their time with it. Just flay me alive, okay? I don’t know how to go slow.)

So, in conclusion, I suppose I just don’t know.

“Hello,” I think.

Hello to you. You’re doing so well. We’re gonna get there, I think. If you beat me to it (you will), save me an M&M cookie and a seat by the window, please.

Published by Dani

I like breakfast, marine mammals, Star Wars, comedy, the song "Dead Man's Party," and Halloween musical revues at theme parks. Let's be friends!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: