I am a garbage person. However, when you enter my home, while you can clearly tell by the trail of cat litter and garbage strewn across the entrance like rose petals, I have plugged in a Glade air freshener so at least one of your senses will be deceived.

My teeth feel loose and I think this medication is making me crazy.


I don't think I have dry sockets. So it appears I was able to sufficiently care for myself in a way that avoided complete disaster. This is a trend.

I find a lot of my emotions and actions fall into similar categories. I wasn't able to commit to lemon sorbet so I got rainbow, which I then decided I never truly wanted. I wasn't able to commit to a guy so I juggled several and then realized that I have no idea what I ever truly wanted.

The humming of my dryer is so loud it vibrates in my chest. In my head. Unbalanced things make a lot of noise.

I have also discovered, some what neatly, that I can live with a persistent grip of panic through the day. I must have felt this before. It can't be new. But my other friends on medication are starting to feel right and I am disappointed in myself for being behind again. This tangle of ghosts intent on smothering me have been here for hours. I cannot seem to find a way from the thoughts that have brought them here. I can't release my obsession and they won't release me in turn until I do, I think.

I peeked at Bumble today- thinking maybe if I distract myself with a series of ill-fated encounters I might feel better. The internet wasn't working well so that didn't go far. I wouldn't have wanted it to.

I considered earlier that I wish I were more technologically capable, because a life as a shut-in might be nice. I could make money online, order things I need online, buy drugs online according to NPR...it could be a life. An existence. The Kitten seems no worse for living this way. Or maybe she is- she's been alone for most of the day for about 6 months now. It's been about 6 months since Isis passed away. I keep seeing articles about cats living for 20 years and I know I did something wrong.

The noise the dryer makes is not quite a hum. There's nothing melodic about it. It's a whir. It's a whipping sound. It's the sound of intense and over-worked frustration. It's angry it's being asked to do so much. It will not be ignored. It will continue to scream like a muffled jack-hammer until it is done and hope that I never ask it to do this again. Every time. Every time it will make this awful noise, but I have no alternative. I'm not going to a laundromat. We are stuck torturing each other in this flat. We create our own hell.

My readership, I recently discovered, is declining. This is fair. I don't know where I am going with this so I can't expect you to go with me.

I'm starting to feel I understand myself less and less. I wonder if on this trip with my mother I will gain some further insight.


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