But I can never truly be done with loafe.
I did start on my new site tho and I’m going to write about all the boys I’ve loved before, who’ve traveled in and out my door. AND I am going to be brutally honest. But I’m going to use fake names and/or initials.
Today will be K. Tomorrow will probably also be K. A lot of the days will be K. Learning to let go and move forward is a long difficult process but I’m doing it! Not here tho.
God damn you to hell.
My trip to London and/or Ireland is not happening anymore. Or not happening as planned. Because now I’m thinking about just going by myself. Have my own adventure. I don’t need to go with other people, I can go alone!
I don’t need you. I don’t need anything. Except for this remote control. And these matches. And this chair. That’s it that’s all I need.
But really, I can go alone, right? Women travel by themselves all the time and some even write books about it. They eat and pray and love and get their groove back and be wild. Of course, I’m older and poorer and much much lazier than these women, and also I can only be gone like a week.
But still. Maybe it’s just what I need. a trip by myself. that can be my hook! How to be one of those women without being one of those women. Hmm. A sad middle aged lady takes a trip by herself and learns absolutely nothing. It’ll be a real hit. You’d read it right?
And when I come back, I’ll finally have something to talk about in my first toastmasters speech. Yes that’s right. I joined stupid fucking toastmasters. Why? because I’m a stupid person who hates joy and freedom and a stress-free life. Why? Because I love feeling constant anxiety and dreading every second of my life. Why? Because I wanted to sap any remaining joy from my existence.
My new company offered it to employees and my boss encouraged me to do it to “build confidence” and “develop leadership skills” and blah blah blah. So I did it. Ugh. I just want to go to work and do my job and go home and be left alone and why do I have to be ambitious and confident and have skills? Can’t I just click and type and slowly rot until I die, in peace? Can’t I have that?
No apparently not. sigh.
Fine. FINE.
I’m thinking about moving on from loafe and starting over on my other site. it’s just sitting there, empty but alluring, like a blank notebook, waiting for me to make magic. I have no readers here (unless you consider foreign bots readers) and my pictures won’t load properly and I don’t want anyone to even find me. So maybe it’s time, especially now, with my super short super sassy lesbian hair (which I didn’t really like at first but I do now).
I’ll open that site up to search engines (people will find me by searching ‘stress pooping’), and my writing will become so much better, so much more refined, that I’ll get a book deal. I can be a whiter, shittier, worse version of Samantha Irby.
Wish me luck, bots. I’ve loved your companionship these past few years. Thank you for thinking I’m worthy of your hacking attempts. I am honored.
Everything is just so terrible. Whatever good things remain are not enough (were they ever?). I’m so damn grumpy and restless, but also completely listless. Work is dumb. Home is dumb. The world is shit. Nothing is fun or enjoyable. I hate my phone. People are awful. My kids suck. Winter is endless.
But there is one thing that might not suck: the Bob’s Burgers movie. but jeez, that doesn’t happen until May.
I guess there’s my record player, that still brings me joy (for now). I upgraded my all-in-one to something a little fancier, and while it’s nothing grand, it is pretty great.
And I love everything about listening to records. The sound of course, no arguing there. But it’s also the preparation and ritual of it, too. Such a quiet small pleasure. So simple. Selecting the record. Taking it out of the sleeve. Putting it on the plate. Setting the needle. Changing sides. I have a few new records, but I especially like rediscovering old music and familiar favorites. It sounds the same but also different somehow, better.
So that makes me happy. it doesn’t last long, something usually comes along to ruin it. family, work, time, my own existential dread.
Oh! my latest day fantasy! That makes me happy, too. I am a sad old lady, just like now, but I’m crazy rich, and a sugar mama to some hot guy, age approx 35-40, with sexy tattoos, and I pay for his artist studio or something, and he has a glorious beard but not a lot of body hair. I spoil him absolutely rotten, and he travels with me on luxurious vacations, ones that involve many trains. And I have scarves, a lot of scarves.