Chunky’s laughter is echoing through the storm window where the sun’s final rays are beaming through and warming my chilled nose.
I wonder how long it’s going to be before we kick on the furnace to chase away the nip in the air.
I take a swig from my wine glass that’s nestled in between a stack of disability papers and continuing education forms.
There are lists that I’ve had to create because my anxiety has been stealing my sanity for weeks like a God damned pirate.
I get sick when I look at the tasks I need to do.
In all honesty, they’re mostly unimportant things like “Clean the basement bathroom” and “Bring the basket of toys to Goodwill” and “Fill out Chunky’s book order form”.
Then I have a list that tells me what time I should wake up on Chunky’s school days and the time to leave the house so there is no confusion about how long it takes to walk there.
Go ahead and laugh.
But these mundane things crawl under my skin every hour of every single day.
If I don’t write a list, I’m left scrambling trying to remember what I was doing and if I fed the dog.
Red is my girlfriend tonight.
It’s warmth in a glass.
And an anti-I-give-up-this-week.
Right now I take it as needed which is pretty much every evening.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Alcohol is bad.
Which is why I’m taking another sip.
If I ask my Mom, I’m sure she would die laughing.
We were all born with super charged batteries. I’m sure of it.
However, mine was bought at a dollar store.
But an expensive one that makes you pay a buck seventy five for a pack of knock off swiffer sweeper pads and you think to yourself “Hmm..this is $1.75. I don’t know about that. Seems a little steep.”
Do you ever do that?
Do you ever consider buying socks there?
Right now I do.
Because for some reason, the computer room is always the coldest room in the house, even during the hottest dog days of summer. Often you’ll find me curled into a ball wearing my over sized Roots sweater that shows it’s age in the numerous holes around the cuffs of the sleeves. They’re just the perfect size to poke my thumbs through and to keep them from traveling up my arm.
The sweater is threaded with memories of stains and grease and paint from the time when we demolished our basement.
Yes, it is hideous.
But it’s fucking comfortable.
It’s home to me.
I had an incredibly depressing post slated for today, however, this one seems to be taking the cake and a side order of a pint of ice cream.
And that’s ok.
We are all allowed to diarrhea our words to the world because we own our own little spaces.
Some people do that more than others.
Why are you looking at me?
Why are you thinking “Kim wrote this all alone, yet she’s having a full on conversation with who? The keyboard?”
And you’re correct.
I’m also talking to this glass of wine.
We will just overlook the obvious…
Kim has lost her marbles.
I’m hunting them down.