Sam is here this morning keeping the coffee and the Baudelaire in full swing. I have nothing if I didn't choose one hell of a group of educated men who can quote with confidence and creativity. He brought his guitar. Hopefully he also brought a pocketful of nails with which to finish sealing my fate because if I have to listen to singing preachers today I may as well just stop breathing now and prevent the inevitable stabs of remembrance. Not that I could tell Sam that it hurts. He knows it hurts but really I would no sooner wish them to stop with the music than I would ever want to stifle a good memory.
For the first time in the history of Henry, something else also happened today. I ran out of cookies. On purpose. Henry is very surprised because Mommy is usually better prepared than this and what the heck, mommy?
No worries, there's fruit, granola bars, fruit bars, bran bars, popcorn and crackers. He won't starve, I just want to see if he can get through a day without cookies. Yes, I realize I may be scarring him for life, I don't care. He needs to break the cookie cycle. He's soon to be as tall as me, if he outweighs me by the time he's ten what the heck am I going to do then?
In other news, Sam's quiet confidence inspired me to get the ball rolling and make an appointment to get my tires fixed. Fucking car. Drives me nuts but at the same time, I don't take it for granted. I even cleaned it last week, including the steering wheel and the shifter knob, which meant Ben almost lost control just starting it up and called for a soapy cloth and a towel to clean the shininess off both. I try. Did I mention I try?
You all think I'm some sort of spoiled playboy centerfold who sits in her turret eating grapes and reading Nietzsche while my knights fight over me...
Okay, well that's besides the point.
I have nails in my tires. Know why? I'm magnetic. We've been over this before. The same freakish power that enables me to kill car key fobs, Xbox 360s, and laptop computers just by virtue of my very presence also enables small, pointy metal objects to skitter across the road and fling themselves into the treads of my tires in their bid to be close to the source of all melancholy.
Whatever, go with it now, okay?
Melancholy is a superhero and she has long blonde-white hair and a black tutu dress, black garters and high-high black stiletto boots on. It's always windy and raining outside when she's around. Her hair whips around so fiercely you can hardly see her eyes, but you feel them on you. The room feels heavy when she's there but you can't take your eyes off her. She has dust from the cemetery caked under her nails and her lipstick is smeared from being kissed and left. She never smiles, she just stares, and her power isn't so much the magnetic anomalies but the power to absorb all of the sadness around her.
She's a giant grief sponge.
Yes.
Marvel will never hire me. That's okay. I'm not looking. I'm busy trying to morph, so I don't have to listen to Sam.
