I wrote this at 3:30 PM today:
"My hands smell like the hospital.
My hair is greasy and cow-licked.
My skin is breaking, white with purple blood hardening below.
My eyes are small. The crows feet circle in.
Pouches, like make-up bags, sit right below. Ironic--there's no makeup here.
There is too much going on."
Since then, I'm feeling better. It's funny. In the face of all the bad things that have cropped up this week--and let me tell you, it's been a doozy--I stayed strong, joyful, positive. But I reached a breaking point this morning and may or may not have bawled/ yelled (?) on a train full of passengers.
Aragon Ballroom, Chicago, 2009
But, since 3:30 I rested, thought, wrote. I'll write this now:
My belly is full of spaghetti and chocolate ganache cupcake.
Muff had cupcakes in her kitchen while I was there for her wedding.
I ate a few.
They were from her favorite grocery.
She said, "Just know, those are my favorite kind of cupcakes ever.
I have made love to those cupcakes."
My hands smell like laundry.
Diz is texting me:
"So did you apply to any grad schools in LA or what?"
And I like that.
I don't know what my eyes look like.
Muff&Jamba Weddingcakes 2009
Eating is absolutely my defense mechanism. I have eaten more this week than I have this...year. Or, so it feels. Every five minutes I look down and there's some new piece of cheese or marshmallow bon bon in my hand. WHAT'S THAT DOING HERE? I ask, shoving it into my mouth and chewing rapidly, so as to get to the strawberry yogurt faster.