This will not be the happiest of updates. Last night, still sick, I actually stabbed my journal while writing because I couldn’t get all my angst to quietly come out on the page. Then I scribbled a big “F—!” on the bottom of the page and called it a night.
I’m sick. I’m worried. I’m cold. And I’m emotional. Oy. But let’s just take stock of what’s going on today:
I can be positive, see: The snow is dancing in flurries. Huge white snow bits are swirling outside the glass and laying themselves down on the ground, quiet and unassuming. Thanks, flakes.
Plus, I took a hot bath today. With candles. While starting John Knowles’s A Separate Peace which is appropriately angsty.
I just had the most disturbing snack. My friends called me into the break room to break with them. I, being a bit hungry, was so thankful. But there they were, bowls of the unwanted. There was a bowl filled with slices of bologna. There was a bowl spilling over with strips of cold, seasoned fat, with one of yesterday’s boiled hot dogs on top. There was a plate with a collection of fried fat pieces. And finally, there was a cold bowl filled with chunks of pig skin. The proper mode of intake was with bread and sour cream. I took the one hot dog, and when your best choice at the table is a hot dog boiled yesterday, you have reached a new snacking paradigm, to say the least.
To be fair (and I know my BRILLIANT AND LOVING, English-speaking coworkers are reading this), this is winter where produce is expensive and hard to come by. And every enlightened culture learns to laud those who can use every part of the buffalo, or whatever. And furthermore, I come from a land where we merely diguise our strips of fat and hooves of cow by shaping them into chips and snack cakes.
So basically what I’m saying is, please forgive my mini-shock after realizing I’d been invited to snack on a bowl of skin.
I seriously need my tonsils to cooperate with me. If they insist on making it hard to swallow, perhaps we can agree that the tension headaches caused by strained swallowing should be abated. Yes, tonsils?
After many sleepless or sleep-interrupted nights where upon I gave up completely and started knitting and listening to podcasts, I can confidently say the following concerning NPR’s mostly quite nice Pop Culture Happy Hour:
“Glen Weldon, shhhhhhhh.”
And finally, I’ve been thinking a lot about writing. You know what’s bad about that? Actually I’m quite confident you KNOW what’s bad about that: Thinking about writing ≠ Actually writing. However, I did consider this:
Snow makes a great metaphor. Like right now this current winter snow feels like a covering over all these things I’m feeling underneath the surface. I’m feeling icy and anxious and cold. And here comes the snow, this beautiful, quiet white covering which I mostly wish would just melt, turn into spring and give me a blooming chance at a reborn world.