Monday, May 13, 2013

Listen to the tea.

I'm a murderer.

I have absolutely no "green thumb" anywhere on my body.  In fact, my thumb is decidedly very white, the pale color of death maybe?  After the life has been slowly leached out of the victim's form, like manslaughter, only this time the victim is some randomly blooming kind-of-green thing.

Poor thing.

Apparently I can't take care of walls either because not pictured to the right of the thing is a few pieces of chalky white cement that have fallen out of the kitchen wall.  No idea.  Suddenly there was a three inch long, half inch deep chip (can that even still be called a chip?) missing from near the ceiling.  I refuse to allow myself to stoop so low as to begin killing off the walls too.

It's certainly a true Monday; I’m very angsty and moody today.  Blame it on the stupid cramping organ called my uterus, or my accusatory boss who overly enjoys the effects of his superiority complex, or the severe lack of Mexican food in this most rural, spider-infested, manure-smelling hole of Germany.  I've bought two bottles of wine and a chocolate bar.  I've changed in to pajama pants as the elastic waist band is supremely forgiving of my tense, bloated middle.  And I'm playing the same tragically romantic rock song on repeat.  The singer's almost off key voice is serenading me about the love between two teens persecuted during the Holocaust and their constant need to get it on, like in the foyer or while hiding underneath the floorboards.  It makes me swoon and I never swoon.  I've been told that I appreciate a twisted version of romance.  Who needs freaking flowers?  Tell me that you wanna screw the day away and my knees go weak.  Just kidding, I think.

Jon would kill me if he knew I was listening to this song again over and over.  Our friends' going away party was a couple weeks ago and I listened to this song on repeat for an hour, a seemingly quick hour, while getting ready.  Jon listened to the song echo from upstairs for the entire time, helpless to press to the next song.  I was pretty proud that it took me only an hour to paint on makeup and curl my hair as I usually leave for work every day with my head wet and my face naked.   We were half an hour late to dinner and my husband can no longer listen to "Alive With the Glory of Love" anymore without having a strong desire to smack himself, or maybe me, in the face.

He just doesn’t understand.
There’s only so much a girl can do when her hormones are screaming, wriggling around for attention, climbing over every other priority to claim the top seat of importance to let her know that every un-positive (not negative, just not positive) thing that comes up is a tragedy.

Can’t find that new air freshener you bought last Tuesday?  Cry.
Dinner was a little overcooked?  Cry.
The dog won’t quit stalking you around the house and is making you feel claustrophobic?  Cry.
Your significant other didn't rinse their fork off well enough?  Cry.

I’m trying to convince my attitude to return back to its regularly positive elevation.  My perma-smile has been turned upside down today.

It would probably benefit to fall in to a nap.
I've only slept three hours in the past two days and I’m so very tired.

Good night, my friends.


When your tea is trying to tell you something, listen.

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