for the last several weeks i have wanted to stab my eye out with a plastic fork on a fairly and disturbingly regular basis. the desire became noticeably stronger last week, for which i blame my blessed lady hormones working in tandem with work stress. right now i am vacillating between ennui black as tar, sticky self-hatred, and deep visceral disappointment with the world in general and myself in particular.
i have fantasies in which i am a texas housewife, riding high on wine fumes and designer antidepressants, or a goat farmer in a quiet corner of vancouver island. doesn't matter, really. i just want to be able to take deep breaths in (and the corresponding deep breaths out) on a regular basis, and not feel like i suck, because it gets really tiring fighting off the feeling that you suck, when you know damn well you can't suck as badly as you half suspect you suck. i know i am neither as good, nor as bad as i sometimes think i am. i'm likely somewhere in the middle, but still, the perception of suck lingers.
of late, i have also started eating my stress, dear diary, and as much as i have heard that expression used before, i have never before felt the sweet sweet reality of melted cheese soothing emotional pain, or the delightful wonder of french fries plugging the rips and tears in one's soul. deeply disturbing, dear diary, ain't gonna lie.
i am tired of whining to friends and family. i am tired of whining to myself. i am tired of listening to myself whine to friends and family and myself. but it seems to have taken on a life of its own, this thing. of course, as anything that has a life of its own, it is likely to end, and i just hope it ends in the foreseeable future. and so, dear diary, i turn to your pages for solace and understanding.