it is so i could hit you if i didn't want you here

Last night, my ex-boyfriend came over and tried to convince me that hooking up with him was a mutually beneficial, good idea. There are a lot of funny stories I could relate about the FIVE HOURS he spent here. (While we’re at it, five hours? Does it take anyone that long to try to lose their virginity anymore? I kind of thought it was an in-and-out sort of arrangement.) This is the least damning of them. I keep a hammer on the windowsill next to my bed, you know, just in case. So in the middle of his little speech, he picks it up and asks me, “Why do you keep this here?” I thought for a little while, because I suppose this is part of what people mean when they say I have a threatening exterior, but then I realized. This is probably exactly why I keep it here. But instead I said, “You know, in case someone breaks in.” I’ve been defining “break-in” loosely these days. I’ve been told I’m unfriendly.

you & i both know it's a negative thing

Today I dressed kind of like a stripper for work. At least, on the bottom half, and when covered up by a pleather jacket on top, I'm really not doing myself any favors. It doesn't help that I often suspect that people wonder where I'm going as I'm short-cutting it through parking lots at eight in the morning - like they've got a sneaking suspicion that I'm walking from work rather than to work. Now that I'm at work, I'm feeling sort of weird about it, like maybe I should have just gone with opaque tights instead of these lacy ones, and maybe it would have been less of a faux-pas to wear a wool pencil skirt in April than it would have been to dress like a stripper.

This morning, in general, was a struggle, so I suppose I should give myself credit even in the least bit for rolling (when I say this, it's literal, I do roll - I don't think people understand that) out of bed, slapping some clothes on my used-and-abused body, and making it to work in the a.m. I also had to allot time for a spontaneous activity, because usually everything that I force myself to do in the morning is something that I absolutely have to do to make it out the door while fully clothed (sometimes this is flexible; I've thrown tops into my purse and walked to work wearing pajamas under my coat on two occasions). This morning I had to take out the trash. All the trashes in my apartment, to be exact.

This is why:
It would be painfully clear to anyone who masochistically decided to sift through my recent addition to the dumpster that I ate my feelings this weekend. Not only would they be able to determine that I'd done this, but they would also probably be able to determine the cause of the eating spree. They would pretty much be able to tell why I ate five pounds of feelings onto my body. And I deserve it. I deserve five pounds of extra suffering for my absolutely deplorable behavior.