I might not make it to summer. This I've realized. I may get swallowed by a giant book of Peruvian such-and-such and never return. I'm cranky and pouting and sitting on the top of my metaphorical suitcase wishing I could close it.
I don't remember this ever feeling this intense. The type of intense where I chew the inside of my mouth until it bleeds. The type of intense where I don't press snooze and instead I just pull the batteries out of the clock. The type of intense where the days of old seem like the best ever days that I fear will never return, even when I should know otherwise. I just want to close the suitcase and not unload the laundry for months. I keep reviewing my email and reviewing my photos and no where was there any evidence of the pending cold war. I didn't see it coming and now I'm holding nukes in both hands while my toes are curled and telling me to just give in, calm down and cool my jets.
This type of existential thought does us no good. But I do it anyways and no one steps in to stop me. Fine. I'm a big girl and I could pout all day long.
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One month.
One month.
One month.
You can do it.
One cycle of the moon, one week of the mean reds, one calendar page flipped, 4 episodes of Grey's.
WE can do it.
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