It has been such a ridiculous day. My friend JL, has hard days. I have ridiculous days that bear no reference to the 'hard' of his. I spent two hours of my day, two, in a meeting with a group of middle aged women and my hilarious boss talk about a multicultural week at our college where they routinely referred to the multicultural dress of the participants as "costumes". It was.. sobering. I alternately wanted to cry and wanted to laugh. I then came home and threw out, donated, or cleaned 2%, 10% and 80% (respectively) of my shit. I am an environmental (maybe eventually I can recycle this) sentimental (but I got this when I was in Saskatchewan when I was little) and practical (I'm sure I'll use this for something) pack rat. And I just had this sickening feeling, of so much shit, of so much everything surrounding me, falling in on me.. It happens every once and a while, this massive cleaning that is days, months in the making. At least I don't alphabetize my condiments anymore.
So, as a result I'm listening to Jack Johnson sing Bob Dylan from the "I'm not there" album, making an utterly ridiculous dinner for one because Jared probably won't be home until later, of a pork roast with pears and sweet potato fries and a nice salad and I'll probably cry all over the god damn thing. Jesus Murphy.
This post has zero point. I am frivolous and ridiculous indeed.
So, as a result I'm listening to Jack Johnson sing Bob Dylan from the "I'm not there" album, making an utterly ridiculous dinner for one because Jared probably won't be home until later, of a pork roast with pears and sweet potato fries and a nice salad and I'll probably cry all over the god damn thing. Jesus Murphy.
This post has zero point. I am frivolous and ridiculous indeed.
1 comment:
Yow.
Ms P, you are not frivolous.
And yeah, in the Western world everyone has too much shit. It is oppressive. All that shit.
Probably the most satisfied I've ever been with my shit was when all my shit fit into a duffle bag and a Navy-issue 20mm cannon ammo box, except for my Spanish .308 Mauser and 12-bore police shotgun.
And, of course, all my artwork, which I am ashamed to say I purged, unforgivably, twice, burning half of everything I've ever created out of depression and desperation.
Hey, I like you.
Post a Comment