No mittens, no pie

I’m pounding a kombucha before I go to sleep in the guest bed of my parent’s house, a house I never got to live in. I’m hoping the live cultures will eat all the sugar I’ve put in my belly today, which was a lot and probably is not how live cultures work at all. I feel heavy and hateful at this time of night in the best of circumstances and right now I just want to ruin someone’s day. I am not my best self lately but goddamn do I make a lot of money. 

I have my parent’s phone number listed in my contacts as “Home” even though I haven’t lived with them for 12 years. 

Long ago and far away, my ex and I had a favorite waitress at at the Steak n Shake on Alpine. Her name tag said Ginger, but her real name was Kelly. She was so nice to us and would sometimes take her breaks when we were there and have a late night dinner with us. We got her a Christmas gift one year and l’ex kept her address in his wallet for a long time so we could invite her to our wedding. We didn’t. She ended up marrying someone from my hometown, though, and quit Steak n Shake to be a dental hygienist. 

I don’t miss that life so much as I miss just being that person. The kind of person who buys waitresses Christmas presents and has such a bright heart. Like I said, long ago and far away. 

I’ve got the soul of an office manager and the body of a sexually frustrated Burlesque dancer. I’m telling you the truth. I wish I could be one of those people that just doesn’t care about things like taxes, baseboards, and Mother’s Day. But I care so baaaaaaaad, you guys. 

I try to look like someone that doesn’t care. I’ve got a big black tattoo on my chest and I brush my hair, oh, not that much. But the idea of not getting my taxes in on time or having dirty baseboards just makes me want to die. (please note – this does not mean I will clean the baseboards, just that I will feel bad about it and remind myself that my older sister has impeccable baseboards that bitch) AND EVERYONE ELSE HAS TO CARE, TOO. Everyone else must be miserable and not good enough as much as I am not good enough.

Basically, I’m the worst and I’ve spent my life trying to be the best. It’s exhausting, friends. I do think there’s something to be said about the value of self-improvement and self-loathing. But for now, I’ve scheduled a FaceTime date with my boyfriend so we can discuss Mother’s Day gifts that I’m ghost-buying for him because YOU HAVE TO BE GOOD AT MOTHER’S DAY OKAY GOD. 

I am not an exceptional person. I have no expectations of an exceptional life. I don’t know if I have settled for a benign path or if there was even a choice to be made anywhere along the line. My dreams have reduced to where I just want to sleep next to the man I love, have a baby, and enough money to raise that baby in a respectable fashion. More or less. Am I boring? Stupid? Am I making a mistake? 

Today, I remembered in high school we had a creative writing teacher (snort) named Mr. Joseph who was small and tan. I overheard him once in the library telling a group of teenage boys that after graduation they should visit Turkey. Because you could get drugs and a hooker for like $10 bucks a day and the weather was nice. 

That’s all. I have no insightful commentary.