I am roasting a chicken. I’m not hungry – and I don’t plan on having dinner at home for a few days, but I am roasting this chicken none the less.
I cried all morning. Not big heaving, hysterical sobs, but that eye leaking thing I can’t seem to avoid lately, and today was particularly damp. I’ve been a little weepy as of late. I hate being a weepy woman. I hate the word, weepy, so I’m calling it a therapy breakthrough. There are chinks in my armor and apparently that’s the whole point. I’m a Brick House with walls 6 feet thick. They’re wholly invisible and invincible, surrounded on all side by a moat of alligators, nightmares, mechanisms of defense and deflection and a few gadgets so secret that I’d have to kill you if I told you about them. Read the rest of this entry »
