When Even My Favorite Vice Doesn't Work

Some days, life sucks the big donkey schlong. Yesterday, my life sucked it. It not only sucked it, it ran back for a second helping of jackass knob. And a third. By the end of my day, my life had pleasured more four-legged mammals than that bitch Catherine the Great ever could have managed.

I won't go into detail, except to say that the completely unexpected hostile behavior of 2 total strangers knocked me into such a depression that I felt like I was zapped into a vacuum tube, Hoovered down to the core of the earth, dipped in rhino piss, then spit back out into a disorienting lostness. Like I was the last cold noodle in a Chinese food take-out carton.

I got the wind knocked out of me, and I had zero creativity working, and so I did the predictable asinine thing: I went to Baskin Robbins for a pint of peanut-butter chocolate ice cream. I ate it. I felt sick and full of sugary emptiness and empty of everything I really needed. Because what I really needed was the feeling that it was OK to have stood my ground with these two wretched vermin sphincters. And I needed to stop beating the shit out of myself for not handling it better, and for not being the person I want to be, and for not having been born the right person, and for being confused and hurt and outrageously pissed off and weary. Why is it that we sometimes seem to relish the feeling of baby-seal-clubbing ourselves to a bloody pulp when we need to stand firmly in our own corner? Excuse me. I think I just went into pronoun hell.

Anyway, the ice cream failed me, as I knew it would, and the blood sugar was high this morning. And I realize more than ever that I need to find out how to, when the wind is knocked out of me, slowly and insistently breathe it back in.