I struggle in life more than I’d like to admit. I get frustrated when I need to tie my shoes. I’m restless just living.
I do better when I’m around people but am prone to isolate. I never think about drinking anymore but will make myself sick on licorice.
If I don’t have a big art project in the works I don’t feel complete. I’ll often burn through months building and then burn myself out with the pens and the paints. Then I’ll only want to play video games for weeks on end.
I brush my teeth two to three times a day and then rinse with peroxide. And then use my water pick with three fingers of alcoholic mouthwash in the reservoir. I’m interested in thoroughness.
I don’t like that I can never get the fan oscillation just right and will often wonder what I’m supposed to be doing in life. Because so far I feel like I get really close but the finish line is for those other guys.
It’s like practicing for a play, memorizing all the lines, rehearsing every morning, afternoon, and night. And then when the curtains open only a few people have shown up.
I put on Ludovico or Baroque or Stephen West so I can listen while falling asleep. Then I won’t think and will drift off to soothing piano keys and calming violins and communism.
But I think anyway. I write notes like these in my phone. Sometimes they’re spiritual and fruity. Other times they’re not. The fan blows so loud I can’t hear the music.
And then the cat jumps on me and I get up and brush my teeth again.
These pillows and their corresponding cases and this sheet for fitting have all been resting comfortably on my bed in a laundry cocoon for the better part of the day.
Whenever I walk into the bedroom my heart plummets. And then I walk right back out of the bedroom.
Because I never know which corner to start with the fitted sheet. And it really doesn’t matter anyway. Whichever corner I choose is wrong. Then I spend the next half day twisting round and round what feels like a linen Rubik’s cube. But there are no colored squares to guide you. No YouTube master patterns to follow.
I don’t even bother with the top sheet anymore either. That’d be one more key tumbler for me to fumble with in a lock of woven madness.
All the while both cats are sitting in feline bemusement, or quite possibly in feline judgment. They have no thumbs to help, only fur to shed on a clothesline fresh comforter.
And then the pillow stuffing. I feel like Real Trump must have when he had to stuff all those jumbo, pinto quesadillos into that supersize Taco Bell sack on Cinco de Mayo of 2018.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my pillow forts as much as Abed and Troy but when will this laundress lunacy ever end? And there’s two more pillows off camera. Because five pillows is the minimum requirement for entry.
So I guess this is what’s really been happening in my Geneva house, this Sunday, this Twelfth of May.
Do you ever go to turn the the dials on your dashboard and then think to yourself, “I can’t do anything with these. Changing them isn’t go to make my life any better. It’s not going to solve any of my struggles, ease any of my pain. It’s going to do absolutely nothing for me if I twist anything here.”