Rain, dawn

I'm not happy. For the past week or so I've been letting myself fall even more apart (into more pieces? further? spread out over a greater area?) than usual. I feel bloated, ugly, horrible, inept, clown-footed, useless, loathsome. Did I mention depressed? I weigh as much as a prize ox. I weigh forty pounds more than I did when Greta came back from France five years ago. And I can't stop ingesting for anything. This morning I felt sicker than I can remember feeling in years. I awoke with an awful hangover and tried assuaging it by drinking a gallon of milk and a bottle of fuzzy water. I was a water balloon sloshing within it a mercury balloon. I felt like I was going to give birth to quints the way John Hurt did that eponymous alien. I honestly thought I might be dying (you know, like those people do who drink too much water after a marathon) and decided, fuck it, it would solve a lot of problems, most immediately my feeling sick.

Greta & ended up sleeping all day, until dinner time. Now I can't get to sleep. She has no problem sleeping pretty much around the clock. I guess maybe she's more depressed than I am. Or maybe better at medicating. Speaking of --I haven't taken any prescribed medication in over a week. Or put on any make-up. Or scent. I smell bad. This blanket smells bad. The kitchen smells bad. As does life, in all its appallingly tedious variety.