Jan 12, 2009
I'm getting tired of the gray weather, and it's only Day Four out of four fucking thousand, or however many hundreds of days our state is the color of old age. It never used to bother me, because I rather liked being depressed: it always made for better poetry, something reminiscent of that vomiting loved-up word jockey, Danielle Steel. The kind that gets made into a book called The Bridges of Madison County.
I want one of those "commercial days", where the sun is always golden and our teeth are always way too white; I want my scarf to blow in the wind as we drive off in our red convertible. I want commercial weather--I DEMAND IT. There's no way that California is located on the same coast as Washington; where's the weather balance, I ask you? And how!
I heard once that if you give something a name--like an illness or something else that's hard to deal with--you can accept it and move on. I gave my seasonal depression the name 'David Beckham' after hearing that, but it hasn't done much good. I thought if it was named after something really pretty, it might feel better and then fuck off--but that's not how David Beckham operates. I wonder how the Esq will feel about him moving in with us full-time; it's like the best worst threesome. At least *something* named David Beckham will be sleeping in my bed; surely that must be good for self-esteem. I guess it's better than getting a tramp stamp (or, if you prefer, ass antlers).
On the brighter side, I am now the owner of three coats; on the dumber side, I'm the owner of three coats TWO WEEKS AFTER THE SNOW, but whatever. I hit the crazy Target sales and came out a woolly winner. Now I'm off to bake something with dark chocolate and orange zest and you're jealous.