What’s the reasoning behind someone being still so very thin, even as they peddle full fat cupcakes? Surely they don’t allow those baked and iced domes of slow death to digest in their stomachs for long, do they? Maybe their metabolisms haven’t changed yet. This explains the audacity of their very short shorts that they wear when they bend over to adjust the cupcake arrangement. Their hidden pain must be non-confectionery related. They don’t have to write down every pink iced crumb that crosses their lips. They didn’t sit for a year behind a desk in swirling cold misery, but rather in a warm bakery where nothing is photocopied or turned into a pdf.
Am having no luck finding employment. The job boards are mocking me with my next to nil college education (not that the degree I was going for would be worth anything, anyway) and my creative-bent aspirations. Even the jobs will dull hearts and the smell of printer toner and Febreze don’t want me due to their extended hours or location. That’s all right, I don’t want them either. Am trying to ride this wave out and not fuck up my self-inflicted opportunity. But my muse? She’s come at me in fits and holographic waves. She’s knows she’s under pressure and she sighs in the corner and refuses to look up from her magazine. It’s coming though. The world will always need its recorders of love and lust and anguish and humor and fear and birth and joy and overindulgence. Poets have been beaten within an inch of their lives but still they survive. Unless they all stick their heads in their own metaphysical ovens like Plath.
I prayed once for a casual friend to have success at writing. I prayed for my husband to be able to do what he loved and make enough money to support us. I prayed for everyone to have at least thirty seconds of a peaceful mind – whether their stomach groaned from hunger that was self-inflicted (oh, how we’re spoiled) or inflicted by the demons of their situation, their birthplace, their parentage, their country, their part of town. I prayed for a lot of things and I thanked and I gave myself the sign of the cross. Then I felt bad for giving myself the sign of the cross because it’s not what’s trendy now to feel links to the past because there were many evil acts in the name of the opposite of evil. What’s trendy is to sit and stew and not wonder why right now and scoff and mock. I’ve never been a follower of trends (except for during that big friendship bracelet thing in the eighties – hot damn I could weave a killer friendship bracelet), nor a setter of trends so I’ve decided to stop giving a shit what the imaginary hipsters in my mind tell me about my weight, my faith, my tits, my clothes, my lack of tattoos, my lack of close female friends to craft with or roadtrip with…
I made an ass of myself last night over a bowl of popcorn. Cried like a sixth grade girl and looked ugly doing it. I can’t affirmatively say “that’s over!” or “never again!” or “I believe in myself now that I’ve cried because I denied myself a bowl of popcorn for fear it would make me fat!” because that’s not true. It’s not over. I will always be a fool and a spoiled fool at that.