I have run this same simulation four times now, and each and every time it refuses to do the analysis.
I just charged Moonrise Kingdom to the credit card I share with my dad. It’s $9.99.
I am buying Moonrise Kingdom and Pierrot le Fou off iTunes in the next 48 hours.
I am capable of sleeping five hours and waking up at four AM in order to work on a MATLAB script for my research project so I have something to talk with my supervisor about, and yet even if I sleep a full eight hours I cannot manage to get up and working on a presentation that is due TODAY in Industry Analysis that is FIFTEEN PERCENT OF MY GRADE because I refuse to stop reading “bitches gotta eat” for more than thirty minutes until I go through the entire archives. Because I guess while I’m sick of advice columns I still have room in my heart for someone who says, “Know what? I am messy and emotionally screwy and physically whatever and I like what I like and I am fucking AWESOME so you better be, too.” (I mean: I know people like this already; but you can’t know too many, right?) And I guess I had time to shower and brush my teeth and eat breakfast, but at this point my gums are bleeding from lack of flossing and “bitches gotta eat” had a horrible post about bacteria from her teeth eating away her jawbone, so really it was time well spent.
Every morning I sit at the kitchen table over a tall glass of water swallowing pills. (So my hands won’t shake.) (So my heart won’t race.) (So my face won’t thaw.) (So my blood won’t mold.) (So the voices won’t scream.) (So I don’t reach for knives.) (So I keep out of the oven.) (So I eat every morsel.) (So the wine goes bitter.) (So I remember the laundry.) (So I remember to call.) (So I remember the name of each pill.) (So I remember the name of each sickness.) (So I keep my hands inside my hands.) (So the city won’t rattle.) (So I don’t weep on the bus.) (So I don’t wander the guardrail.) (So the flashbacks go quiet.) (So the insomnia sleeps.) (So I don’t jump at car horns.) (So I don’t jump at cat-calls.) (So I don’t jump a bridge.) (So I don’t twitch.) (So I don’t riot.) (So I don’t slit a strange man’s throat.)
I want to sleep for a week.
Fuck Captain Awkward.
Fuck Dear Sugar and fuck Dear Prudence and on back to Dear Abby and Ann Landers: fuck every last one of you.
Fuck every glib advice columnist who ever held up other people’s problems for show and tell and a round of “At least I haven’t (shot my neighbor’s dog, screwed my boss’s daughter, been obsessed with the state of my son’s underwear.)” Fuck all those relieved sighs and At least I’m not that bads.
Fuck all those easy answers that I believed meant someone else could teach me how to live my life, that if I made all the right steps and did the most mature thing I would be spared from pain. Fuck every silent bystander who was damned to hell in those letters and fuck feeling like I am always going to be inhabited by the spirit of the-one-who-is-wrong, the-one-who-wronged, the one obscured behind the letter writer’s frustration and exhaustion and impatience and fucking good intentions.
Fuck every hour and minute and second I spent retreading the same articles, asking Do you know the answer? Do you know the truth? Is the person in this letter closest to me, or is this one, or this one?
Fuck you all for sending me out into the world asking opinions of everyone, ready to give their ideas weight over my own: because what qualifications have you, except for not being me? Fuck you for letting me think if I only collected enough information from books and movies and people on how to live, what to do, I would be safe.
Fuck every minute I spent waiting to decide what direction to go because I was sure there was a right choice, if only I had the proper advice.
And I’m not even exaggerating.
Okay, maybe a little.