Self Portrait
It's been so long since imaginary friends were de rigeur in my world that it's hard to imagine what I'd blame on one. Still, I sometimes wish I had mine to take the heat. I think I called him Zikavich.
I spent the past two days crouched on the woodgrain linoleum of my bathroom floor, waiting for my body to give up and just barf already. I lately went nearly nine years without vomiting (no teenage bulemia here, not that one would suspect it), and when I finally did in June, my brain had no problem with it. Instant relief. Glorious. Le corps is less inclined to just let go.
I've gone a little 'Rembrandt' on you tonight. The mirror was dirty, though, and it sparked a halfhearted cleaning spree. Good thing, too, because some serious disinfecting was in order.
Believe me, it's far less vanity and far more wanting to record a moment, or an age lived through. Being twenty-five is so terribly easy, and I want to remember when I'm fifty and have to think hard about third grade and peer pressure and what it was to be a girl. Even so, I have a creepy foreboding that I'll never grow completely up. I still see a little kid, even through that dirty screen, and always will. It's far less disconcerting when I think how long it took to get here. Lord, but it seems a hundred years ago that I was telling Mom, shortly after my seventh birthday in August, that I'd rather stay six. It was a nice age. She then drove around the corner from Burgoon school onto Pine and the rearview mirror on my side of our beloved silver deisel Chevette came loose. Just flew off. I imagine that I saw it lying there in pieces for weeks, until the snow came, and after it melted. More likely, Mom stopped and picked it up. She even pushes carts all the way back up to the store instead of stowing them in the cart return corral or leaving them rudely, dangerously loose to roam. She's so intrinsically good. If the meek shall inherit the earth, then Mom should be their queen... but if they try to push her around, they're going to get a big surprise.
I spent the past two days crouched on the woodgrain linoleum of my bathroom floor, waiting for my body to give up and just barf already. I lately went nearly nine years without vomiting (no teenage bulemia here, not that one would suspect it), and when I finally did in June, my brain had no problem with it. Instant relief. Glorious. Le corps is less inclined to just let go.
I've gone a little 'Rembrandt' on you tonight. The mirror was dirty, though, and it sparked a halfhearted cleaning spree. Good thing, too, because some serious disinfecting was in order.
Believe me, it's far less vanity and far more wanting to record a moment, or an age lived through. Being twenty-five is so terribly easy, and I want to remember when I'm fifty and have to think hard about third grade and peer pressure and what it was to be a girl. Even so, I have a creepy foreboding that I'll never grow completely up. I still see a little kid, even through that dirty screen, and always will. It's far less disconcerting when I think how long it took to get here. Lord, but it seems a hundred years ago that I was telling Mom, shortly after my seventh birthday in August, that I'd rather stay six. It was a nice age. She then drove around the corner from Burgoon school onto Pine and the rearview mirror on my side of our beloved silver deisel Chevette came loose. Just flew off. I imagine that I saw it lying there in pieces for weeks, until the snow came, and after it melted. More likely, Mom stopped and picked it up. She even pushes carts all the way back up to the store instead of stowing them in the cart return corral or leaving them rudely, dangerously loose to roam. She's so intrinsically good. If the meek shall inherit the earth, then Mom should be their queen... but if they try to push her around, they're going to get a big surprise.
posted by A at
12:05 AM
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