Perhaps, if you had been following along from the beginning, in the little house with the two cuddly cats (I still miss them terribly) in that quiet shaded neighborhood, you may already have predicted–or at the very least, not be surprised to learn–that I would be back again in my parents’ house, sitting at home with our beloved 15-year-old dog, broken again after more debacled essays at living; unemployed, single, hungry as a wild thing (At present, I can’t get the desire for all things chocolate out of my mind); and also hyperventilating mildly because of my antidepressant, which affects my breathing so that inhaling and exhaling and inhaling…etc. becomes a constant, conscious effort that I always balance in the background along with whatever else I try to do, however small it may be, throughout the day. It’s uncomfortable when you always feel stifled of your breath, but grief-induced vegetative paralysis is much, much more difficult to manage, and this pill is the only one that keeps the ever present, insidious grief free-floating stealthily inside me from spreading all through my being and soul like an amoeba and swallowing my ability to thrive until I rot slowly, and then rapidly, from the inside out. Continue reading
While holed up in my room, I read this essay in defense of hermithood by someone much more accomplished than me, and felt redeemed for half a minute.
This is not spam. It’s what your email looks like when you are friends with people who are friends with people who are almost as far-flung-freakish as you are, and when the only romantic interest you receive comes from married men and Humberts.
(No, I didn’t make this up.)
. . .
A few of the very unforgettable tokens of thought people have relayed to me then and now that I just hold on to forever (verbatim) . . .
- Have you considered electroshock therapy? Best friend (sincerely)
- Aunt Morgan, why can’t you get a job? 4-year-old nephew
- Oh, Morgan, why do you hate men? . . . Then why don’t you date? Mom Continue reading