just show me a moment that is mine

Light has suggested, only half-in-jest that we stop going to Passim, because I've cried at the last four concerts we've been to. All for different reasons, but it seems like a little too much to be chalked up to coincidence.

It's possible it's a little bit related to the sensation of being trapped, even if we're in easy-escape seats, I still feel penned in. Which brings on the hot flashes. And hot flashes still have the sort of 1-2-3 punch of "look, I'm deeply uncomfortable. I'm deeply uncomfortable because I don't have my ovaries anymore. I don't have my ovaries any more because I'm brca positive. Breast cancer is inescapable, and I'm probably going to die of it."

Close readers may see that there's a fairly large leap between the ultimate and penultimate statement. Closer readers may realize that sometimes, I'm the equivalent of a giant fatalistic train with too much momentum to brake.

I almost started to cry when Purple's husband paid me the compliment of telling me that I'm awesome, and I told him that I say it all the time because I don't actually think that I am.

I want someone to let me be bad. I want a drink I want to be mean and touchy and terrified, and I don't have the space for it. And I'm beginning to think that I never will let myself have that space. And I think I should be better than this, I think that I should be over all my problems, that all of these things that I'm working with, struggling with, are old news and dirty laundry and that I'm supposed to be quiet and good and have worked this shit out.

I need to change my meds, my moods, pick a different brick wall to bounce myself against. I'm crying every day, like some excessively drippy cuckoo clock. I want to scream and throw tempertantrums but I tamp everything down into reasonable good humor or rueful acceptance. I'm doing this thing, and I think it's causing my self-preservation skills to shit the bed, even if at first it was designed to flatter, and it made me feel a little special.

More work, then obedience class, then laundry, then bed. then work, then the gym, then homework, then therapy. then work, then plastic surgeon, then cooking and cleaning. then work, then home to walk the dog, then training, then outing with work-friends. then work, then home to walk the dog, then a passim show. All my problems are pedestrian, why am I so thrown by them?

just show me a moment that is mine

Light has suggested, only half-in-jest that we stop going to Passim, because I've cried at the last four concerts we've been to. All for different reasons, but it seems like a little too much to be chalked up to coincidence.

It's possible it's a little bit related to the sensation of being trapped, even if we're in easy-escape seats, I still feel penned in. Which brings on the hot flashes. And hot flashes still have the sort of 1-2-3 punch of "look, I'm deeply uncomfortable. I'm deeply uncomfortable because I don't have my ovaries anymore. I don't have my ovaries any more because I'm brca positive. Breast cancer is inescapable, and I'm probably going to die of it."

Close readers may see that there's a fairly large leap between the ultimate and penultimate statement. Closer readers may realize that sometimes, I'm the equivalent of a giant fatalistic train with too much momentum to brake.

I almost started to cry when Purple's husband paid me the compliment of telling me that I'm awesome, and I told him that I say it all the time because I don't actually think that I am.

I want someone to let me be bad. I want a drink I want to be mean and touchy and terrified, and I don't have the space for it. And I'm beginning to think that I never will let myself have that space. And I think I should be better than this, I think that I should be over all my problems, that all of these things that I'm working with, struggling with, are old news and dirty laundry and that I'm supposed to be quiet and good and have worked this shit out.

I need to change my meds, my moods, pick a different brick wall to bounce myself against. I'm crying every day, like some excessively drippy cuckoo clock. I want to scream and throw tempertantrums but I tamp everything down into reasonable good humor or rueful acceptance. I'm doing this thing, and I think it's causing my self-preservation skills to shit the bed, even if at first it was designed to flatter, and it made me feel a little special.

More work, then obedience class, then laundry, then bed. then work, then the gym, then homework, then therapy. then work, then plastic surgeon, then cooking and cleaning. then work, then home to walk the dog, then training, then outing with work-friends. then work, then home to walk the dog, then a passim show. All my problems are pedestrian, why am I so thrown by them?