I have that kind of headache that fits like a tight ring of hot scouring pad, spanning my forehead to my temples to the back of my head. It's a crying/not eating/pouting kind of headache.
I feel like I am trapped in a bad country western song, you know the kind: my baby done left and I don't know if she's hankerin' to come back.
Any situation one finds herself in that requires the use of the word hankerin' is a bad situation indeed.
I sprayed her neck and wrists with my cologne before she left–a sort of primitive, doglike thing to do I suppose, but hey, it was by Cartier so it's not like I am a total geek.
I meant to douse one of my T-shirts in cologne and stash it in her luggage, but it was packed so full I couldn't pull it off. And I forgot to write something on the napkin inside the little lunch I packed for her. Damn it.
Another bad thing is that last kiss. It's never quite right in retrospect. Too short, too long, too wet, not wet enough, whatever.
Shari over at venti mocha latte no soy skim low foam whatever was talking about good depression music. Fuck music. I am too depressed to listen to music.
I think I am in one of those same shirt for three days wearing, isolating, chocolate eating funks that just about nothing will cure except for a phone call saying ooops I left too soon and can I come back for three months.
My only salvation has been visiting whatsbetter?.com where I get to choose which of two random items, people, etc. are better. I chose Sally Struthers over communism and was in the minority. I chose Toronto over Euro-Political graffiti and was in the majority.
It's mindless, but then so am I today.