Questionable

I don't know where it goes, my fire.

I'm okay with it being gone. I'm okay with everything being gone. You wanna go to? So go. Just go.

I'm getting lost along the way. And, truthfully, I'd rather be sitting in some foggy graveyard deciphering words as the come along in whispers.

I can't do that right now. This is taking an extraordinary amount of effort. Like, perhaps I should trim my fingernails. In another life, I'd have another lady do that for me. And she'd also paint them pretty colors or leave off the color entirely and paint them white. Or black, which she hated. But I think I'll trim them tomorrow instead.

Maybe the next day.

It took me ages to decide on a birthday invitation for Maddie's party. It took me forever to book the thing, and the place I wanted to have the party had no more availability, so I had to suck it up and do something else because, goddammit, I want her to have a fantastic party. She deserves nothing less. So, instead of throwing a fit, which I did, I book the thing and then I work on the invites.

Then I forget about the invites.

Then I remember the invites and I look for another style or something that I can get faster because I had forgotten the first time.

Then I forget a second time.

So I ordered them tonight, hoping I can get them before Saturday, well, Friday.

I don't know Maddie. I'm trying. Failing at trying. You need a replacement. I promise I'll get Christmas worked out. Even if you're the naughtiest, I'll pay the man in the suit off.

Slippery slope you're playing on, love. You, with your old hands and tangled hair and glossed lips and smile for the rest of the world. You have no idea what you've discovered, uncovered.

I guess I just keep lying to myself - sincerity only enough for one - and everyone else is sent to the fire. No one understands my fury. No one.