Say...

Have you ever noticed how hard it is sometimes to tell the difference between a decision of recklessness and one of self-preservation?

I wonder with widening eyes and a quickened heartbeat: Who does stuff like this?

Me. Apparently.

Happy Halloween

Findagrave.com has the somewhat peculiar feature of allowing you to rate a dead celebrity's famousness on a scale from one to five. I'm not entirely sure what the point of this is, but of course that didn't stop me from giving George Eliot five stars.

Did you notice how haunted the moon looked tonight?

Triptych

An entry in which I vaguely allude to yet another instance of being made to feel demoralized and embarrassed:


version 1: there is only enough time in the any given day to do everything that needs to be done as halfhearted and half-assed as possible.

version 2: on second thought, fuck off.

version 3: these emotions are like rabbit holes. Do you know what I mean?

There are days when even the excessive amounts of caffeine, the countdown to winter, and the words of comfort from people who care aren't quite enough. There are days that feel inconsolable, they threaten to devour everything in their path. It seems like the people who often end up making me feel like a bad human being aren't the people who really have a right to even make me feel like this to begin with, so why do I let this shit bother me?

Oh: because these comments have a way of tapping into that ever-present fear of being a disappointment.