create my own hell
google the shit
take a hit
take a nap
face the slap
string the brain
I’ll never know if it was my decidedly and intentionally un-Primal birthday dinner—a heaping steaming plate of enchiladas mole and a margarita (salt, rocks)—or the PMS.
Maybe it was my unrealistic expectations—an old childhood wish of being swept off my feet in some quirky, indie way—or the growing unease—read: plummeting self-esteem—I’ve been experiencing lately.
What a glorious thought—organizing my blog entries from day to day. Night Table Mondays. Recipes Friday. In between, Tuesday True stories, Wednesday Revelations and The Thursday Hunt for Clarity among the leafy branches of Suburbia.
Oh for it to fold up that easily, like a linen napkin; to present itself as a clever newspaper column, magazine gloss, a blog someone else writes.