Little by little

The drawers and closets disgorge. Thrown up into reject piles only to be sworn in again. I have tried so hard to be ruthless. I have entreated myself, I have begged myself, I have offered myself generous rewards of hamburgers, and my otherself has just laughed in our faces and pulled that tank top out of the goodwill pile and had a hamburger anyway.

I think I might be halfway done, dwelling in a city of mismatched boxes, and I am so tired, every last crevice of me aches, deep muscle ache, only alleviated by a good cathartic cry. But nothing comes. My eyes couldn't be more dry, I just get curiously zenner, uh huh, I just said zenner and meant it.

I thought I was well on my way to have a collassal melt down when I went to move my car the other day and discovered that THOSE MOTHERFUCKERS HAD BOOTED ME!!!!! and I came home totally prepared to throw shit and break things, at the very least stomp around and nearly drown in my tears of frustration, and bat blame around like a stinky wicket. Nope, nothing. The guru in me said only, you have assets, use them.

And I am fine, I am cool, goddamn me if I am not the coolest cookie in the history of upheaval, that doesn't mean that I want to make my bed, after my (hopefully) last visit to the crack laundromat.

I need a massage and a joint, I need to cry, I need to stop leaking money. I wake up every morning disoriented, but I am quite certain that if I could, I would never work for money again, if I could help it. I say this only because I haven't yet found the thing that I love. Short of that there are sad songs, which should so the trick..... except that they haven't.

This is my home I am boxing up, my stubborn, willfull home, I shift from forgotten closet to sealed box, so it can gather dust in another state, in another State. I, evidently, don't function on planet ruthless, I do the best I fucking can on planet Cass is a sentimental fool, I am pretty sure I wouldn't have it any other way.