I thought I was maybe having a moody kind of day, that kind of day where you think bad thoughts but then eat ice cream and feel better until you realize how fat you are and oh shit you have PMS, but then I ran into the reality of jeather, a noncommital hybrid that is neither like jeans nor leather and inspires the phrase stylistically flaccid. My eyes spontaneously spurted tears onto this new material, and I knew that I had veered into a much more serious stretch of the emotional spectrum than I had at first suspected.
I really cried on jeather today at the mall. Jeather was my tipping point.
I didn't want jeather to be my tipping point, though, and, because I was experiencing that particular kind of crazy that lets me think I can dig my way out of sadness by being quirky and a little spontaneous, I compounded jeather tears with public shame by ending up in the back of a Boe's fighting back sobs while wearing a Sesame Street Grover hat.
One minute I was sure that all I needed to do was try on the most googly-eyed hat I could find, and the next minute I was barely through the first line of C Is for Cookie — silently in my head, of course — before I was sniffling and dripping tears on a patch of ugly shopping mall Berber with a big pink nose sticking out of my forehead.
Who knew that ludicrous consumer goods could be so heartbreaking?
In an effort to lead a life less weepy, I went home, put on my favourite comfort sweater, and settled down for a long, distracting evening of Happy Endings and chicken fingers. Life still had some tears in store for me, though, because a train of not one, not two, but three cats tromped across my stomach, bent down to sniff, and came up with Stink Face, that tell-tale, mouth-breathing, dropped-jaw look cats have when they smell something particularly disgusting that they love, because they love nothing more than each other's misplaced biological waste, it seems.
Curious about what on my person could be causing such a rash of Stink Face, I sniffed the bottom of my sweater, and it was cat urine, people. My favourite comfort sweater was rank with the stank of male cat urine.
And then I remembered something so terrible that I continue to shudder when I think about it: earlier in the evening, I actually picked mystery food off that sweater and ATE IT.
Winter is hard enough on me even without the clusterfrack of seasonal whatnot, jeather, crying under a Cookie Monster hat in public, and eating off a cat pee sweater, but now I have to find myself at the end of this blog entry with nothing pithy to say? I'm done. Done!
THIS IS ALL TOO DAMN MUCH.
PS. The Palinode can attest to my state of mind.