just kidding, it’s coming along dashingly. i’d include proof via a sentence written today at 6 am because i’m an angsty rebellious vampire who sleeps at 8 pm and wakes at dawn, but i never know if what i’ve written is partially brilliant or mostly recyclable.
go to yoga because i’m 24 and still only capable of self care 1/8th of the time
eat a grapefruit
(wait, i already did that, yay vitamin C-eize the day)
((sry bout that))
read poems before 2 pm so that when i arrive at the poetry class i TA i can make insightful comments and trick the students into thinking i know something about poetry beyond what it makes me feel like
is there anything more important than what it feels like?
things i will do today
eat rice pudding for breakfast
go to the movies by myself
hydrate with $6 coconut water
read A Visit From the Goon Squad which is currently rocking my world and defining my night life
avoid the dishes in the sink which are probably growing fish in them because i can only do so many annoying things in one day and it’s friday and if i don’t cry in my popcorn seeing Call Me By Your Name for the second time, alone, then am i even human?
Imagine your belly button is a washed up Space Dancer named Greg
At one point Greg danced between bodies— womb juice was his stage, and hot damn did he love that performance
But due to the big event of your birth, he can no longer dance in space, which is why he collects lint and body jam and really hates when you get into his special area with a Q tip and try to get him to clean up his act
So now Greg is very lonely, borderline despondent, because the other body disappeared and he is smooshed inside one body and before you’re like, wait I thought this had to do with me and my body, get this, it’s your body that Greg lives in now
Which, even if you loved your body, is destined to be a pretty hostile environment given that Greg was used to floating in the ether between you and your mother but now he’s being held hostage in your one body, partially on the inside, and partially on the outside, and, well, if you’ve ever been claustrophobic than you maybe understand 1/8th of the OH FUCK Greg is feeling
And so, as if this wasn’t hard enough for him, you’re maybe sometimes a dick to your body
(Sorry, but you are)
Starving it and stuffing it, whispering nasty things to it, making it run a hundred miles, getting it a little too drunk on that sparkling pink stuff…
Then there was that one time you tried to pierce Greg because you thought he was ugly and then he got infected and became truly ugly and Greg just wants you to be a good host for Christ’s sake
So here’s the deal: Greg will accept that he can no longer be a Space Dancer if you can accept that his home is also your home
To make it a hospitable environment for both you and Greg, Greg has requested that you try something:
When you’re about to say something about how you have hippopotamus thighs and freckles that defy the laws of geometry, ask Greg to give you a hand with disposing that thought in the Body/Brain Compost Bin (conveniently situated in your bellybutton) where it will join other nasty comments and eventually get turned into something you can grow self esteem in.
If you can’t do it for yourself, do it for Greg, because he needs a new job now that he’s not a Space Dancer, and it would please him immensely to help you field your negative body comments so that he could assume his new role as Greg the Gardener.
But remember that sometimes beauty takes a long ass time to grow. Greg will not be pleased if you tell him to rush his Victory Garden and since Greg has never been a composter before, it might take him more than a few tries to get it right
So be patient with Greg because Greg loves you like any family member that has to, and he’s taken enough abuse, don’t you think?
(I actually don’t recommend having a belly button photo shoot, like I did this morning. Greg asked for an American Beauty-esque shot but I didn’t have a rose so I used a banana and I think the effect fell flat).
Today my poop is taking a little trip down to Georgia for some special testing. I wish I’d planned this shitcation because I have so much money as a writer that I have no idea what to spend it on, but alas, the fecal sampling is because of IBS and not some grand surplus in my bank account. I’m hoping the results will tell me things like how likely it is that I can succeed doing the thing I love, and whether or not my soul is actually a garage flower. I’m also hoping not to have a stomach ache all the time and maybe decrease my mood swings, but my functional medicine doctor said mood swings bode well for my career; all great writers seem to be emotionally unstable. That’s cool and everything but I’m sure unknown artists have all the troubles of well-known artists, without the perks of being known, so let’s just even this shit out, okay?
In other news, it’s still winter here and I’m still working like a crazed ant on book 2. Do you think crazed ants send their poop off on shitcations? What would you give to feel secure beneath your epidermis and when was the last time you took something that wasn’t yours? Just yesterday I used someone else’s almond milk. Today, these are not my socks. So goes the pattern of wanting things I do not have.
What I do have is…
A bit of a routine…wake up before six, drink bullet proof coffee, write a few thousand words. The rest of the day is a charcuterie board of things I savor and things I savor less, like walking the dog in the woods and going to yoga and babysitting.
I still have not finished the book I am reading and I am disappointed that my concentration isn’t greater.
I’m still watching The Office and whole heartedly believe that humor is the only Lozenge powerful enough to cure the sore throat life gives me.
In exactly a month I’ll be twenty-five and that’s scary and weird and also feels like nothing at all because what’s a calendar except something you give someone you don’t know too well on Christmas.
Overall, parts of these days are good and parts of these days are bad, but I’m learning, at a glacial pace to befriend myself (just to solidify my own duality, contrary to Every. Buddhist. Talk. Ever).
And, okay, how about this for a cartoon in a publication like the New Yorker but that would actually publish me: A dog walks by another dog who is peeing on some lemons in the grass, and the urinating dog says: When life gives you lemons, claim ’em.
Which is what I’m trying to do, too. Claim what’s mine, because I’m probably never going to make a lot of money or be any fun to party with because drinking just makes me obnoxious and in desperate need of pizza and besides, I hate staying out late and may never have kids or a husband (though I will not forfeit the vision of my dream divorce). Things like going to grad school or having a luxury car just might not be part of my future, but there are things that I treasure, things so small I was accidentally stepping on them for years. But having spent a little time on the ground, I’ve picked up some lovely tiny things off the bottom of my feet — sunrises, dog walks, downward dogging, coffee in the morning.
I’m becoming fond, like Swipe Right Fond, of this simple, non-glitzy life of mine.
I was watching animal planet, which I haven’t done since I was a kid, and I know I still am, kind of, but there was something about this particular strain of fungi that makes them luminescent as they grow and as they glowed in the otherwise dark, I wished that for me, too.