Dear me,
You’re making an effort to write about
your day, and I applaud you for that.
No, really.
It was terrible. The Grinch stole Christmas
kind of day. You flubbed your presentation,
forgot to call your mother on her birthday,
failed your physical, cut in front of an old lady,
stubbed you toe. OH – and you tripped in front of your crush.
A regular occurrence with you, this bungling,
but just seemed like the cherry on top:
On top of an ice cream boat of work whipping
and slices of a dating disaster banana drizzled with
passive-aggressive snubs by friends (who you
really should start calling asshole acquaintances, btw).
But here you are, journaling. As you resolved to do.
You completionist. You even went to bed at a respectable
9:37pm. And you didn’t look at your phone,
too much. Except for email and Instagram and Snapchat
and the news (fuck, fuck, what is a cyclone doing in Seattle?).
But nevermind, here you are.
The world is ending, slowly, unaware of itself,
but here you are. Writing.
This is how you are going to find your path
in 2024, to more awareness that will open the door
to progress and happiness and—
Fuck. I’ve used this journal before.
Entry, February 16, 2019:
“I’m writing about my day, for the last time.
People are irredeemable assholes,
happiness is a fiction, and I
am an irrational mess. Is it any wonder
I want to run away from my job, my life,
existence? Is it any wonder I have been
eating ice cream every night directly
from the container… with a fork?”
Journal, I’m amending my resolution for 2024.
You’re dropped in favor of ice cream.
I’ll nod to progress, though; this year will be all about
eating top-brand ice cream, sadly, brokenly, wistfully,
with a spoon.
