I woke up this morning feeling anti-blog, feeling like, why why why do I share myself in cyberspace, what kind of masochistic narcissistic nut am I? Maybe it's time to delete the whole damn thing.
But then another part of me, my Inner Wise One, I call her, new agey, I know, I am sheepish about it...But she says not so fast. Don't do anything hasty. This is who you are, go with it, accept it, and write it the fuck down. Bitch. And I was like. All right, all right.
No, that's not true. She talks really nicely to me.
Well, she does. It's just embarrassing to admit I talk to myself. But if I'm going to admit it anywhere, it may as well be on the world wide web.
I chided myself only in the nicest way of course. It wasn't an anxiety attack. I wasn't foaming at the mouth with guilt, regret, self-hatred. I could see it shimmering on the horizon though, could almost taste its metal shine. I would confess to you if it were an anxiety attack. Instead I'll be honest: it was a consti-fucking-pation attack.
I stand by this grain-free nonsense because if I had to choose between mental sanity and flowing bowels I'd choose sanity every time. I'll let the poop drain from my ears if I need to. I don't want to go back to that hell-hole of suicidal despair, of mood-swings that hold me captive and practically drooling in desperation. And because I refuse to go back, I know I can tweak my diet, make small changes that will yield brown log-like results. I have confidence in that. My sanity depends on it. And anyway, isn't that what the internet is for?
I am dramatic. But it really feels awful in the throes of it. The mental anguish part that is. If you suffer, then you know.
So the blogging ambivilence. It comes and goes. Ebbs and flows like the muscle definition line on the outer edge of my thigh, the way it appears sometimes when I cross my legs at the knee. I love that goddamned line.
In other news, I shared a cozy snuggle with Stella this morning. She crawled into my bed. I told her I wanted to stay in bed all day until I poop, that if my colon can go on strike then I can too, go make yourself breakfast, you know where the kitchen is. She thought that was ludicrous.
I am reading The Tender Bar. It was recommended to me twice this week. I read aloud to her in between stealing envious glances at her tanned legs. She asked what dawn is. She asked what aristocrat means. Then she said, "Mommy, you smell like kitty litter," and I thought, how the hell does she know what kitty litter smells like? So I asked her, "Fresh kitty litter or dirty kitty litter?" And she asked what fresh means and I told her it means clean and she said I smell like clean kitty litter and that, dear Reader, is why I can share that story with you here.