Happy Birthday

Yesterday was the culmination of Melancholia Week, and I'm convinced the force of my ennui caused all the snow. Chicago, if you will not crawl up into the lonely cavern of my head, I will at least trap you in your houses. I could not shake the blues, even using exercise! I did something called Boot Camp that hurt me and reinforced my abhorrance of the armed services. It works out well, though, for my abdomen feels pummelled, the physical embodiment of hurt and enjoying hurt and hurting some more. I was walking around all week, out of it, and today I realized: yesterday was my mother's birthday.

Seriously, that may not have anything to do with anything, but I cancelled my therapy session and I went to my old workplace to feel at home and then I went home and attempted maudlin drunkenness but I was getting too many phone calls. At no point did I think of my mother, and then this morning--duh. So, in the ultimate tribute, I spent her birthday in a self-protective bubble of repression and avoidance. I could have sent her yellow roses--her favorite--but what meaning would that have? Yellow roses are for friends, melancholia is for adult children of borderlines.

There's a foot of snow on the street, whiskey in the bottle, and they were out of the shade of high-end lipstick I tried to buy, so it's the right time to be sad. Two boy babies were born last week and I will be unable to maintain this crushing lonliness when smelling and holding little dudes, so I shall take advantage. It's clockwork, it's biology: February in Chicago. I have got to learn to play the harp. There is a song in here somewhere.