All of the men in my life are such that they don't have to work really hard to piss me off and they seem to spend the rest of their lives making up for past regressions. (That's the egocentricity talking.) Often I feel like the majority of a lifetime is spent making up for the minority. Adulthood is spent getting over childhood. Retirement is spent getting over the thousands of wasted days. Parenthood is spent getting over one's old childhood. A lifetime is spent figuring out life. It's never just life when it comes to these sorts of things: life, that is.
Today marks the return of The Pants. The hideous green velour pants Annoying Coworkers feels need to be worn on a two-week rotation. The entire day has been spent staring aghast and doodling.
I'm totally over therapy. I can appreciate how for many people it's a good thing; for me, I just need to figure things out on my own. There's mental illness and then there's growing up. It's a fine line.
I'm dappled and drowsy and ready for sleep and there isn't a goddamn thing I can do about it. How crass of me.