I’m Hungry

My whole world, all I both love and hate, and all the thingy things that simply please me are in my refrigerator.

The day is dismal. Nothing appeals to me because everything fucking sucks. Oh, wait, a pudding cup! It was hiding behind that bullshit Tupperware I have been too scared to open for months. Let me just scoot that to the side and yay! My little sweet treat will shove away the ‘blah’ mundane fuck ass day. My kittens are pudding cups. I come home too grim, and the pudding cups come galloping into the room. Instant grin.

Bills, the inevitable pieces of shit! They are the Worchester sauce I keep replacing but rarely use. Because of the rare use, I forget about the boring bottle on the counter and find it the next morning. Having no desire to pick a fight with a spoiled anchovy, I throw the boring bottle away. I have to replace it, though, because when you need worchestersauce … nothing else will do. I never remember to pay my phone bill on time.

Hellman’s mayonnaise is my mother. No matter how irritated she makes me, no matter how serious the diet, there is only one mayonnaise. Kraft light mayo cannot work a fucking lighter, much less hold a candle.

The little plastic piece of prison is cheese. You can put cheese on damn near anything but you shouldn’t. I shouldn’t have a credit card, but I do.

My boyfriend is that bottle of divine wine. When it does me right, wow. I am giggling and brave. Love is the best damn thing. When it does me wrong, and I wake up the next day to throbbing pain too strong to salvage the day, I hate it. I am done. I am never drinking again. I actually like being single, so I don’t need this shit! I promise I swear, I will never drink again, sobriety doesn’t frighten me! Please just stop making me throw-up. Both nauseated and empty, I am helpless. There is no reprieve. Only time will heal.

The giant collection of fast-food sauces and packets is that pair of jeans I have had since highschool. How can anyone know for sure they will never fit into their old favorite jeans again? They cannot! So those jeans are saved, for that ‘just in case.’ I love Mcdonalds hot mustard! So if I ever run out of mustard, which has motherfucking never ever ever happened to me, I will be glad I saved those likely expired tiny tubs.

When I happen to catch my favorite song playing, I am doing the dance you do when you find someone else’s delicious leftovers in a styrofoam container in your fridge. They aren’t my left overs, but I am so happy they stopped by at this perfect time. Yum yum yum.

Pineapple and cold showers. A tart shock and then super satisfying.

Icy water pitcher. Cool bedsheets at the end of a night so long the birds are chirping. Such fresh refresh.

How the fuck did this onion turn to mush?! Getting out of the shower and realizing the bottle of lotion is empty and my last clean towel fell on the floor and a cat peed on it.

I do not understand why I even buy bread. It’s impossible to watch television. Moldy commercials sneak up too quick. I might enjoy one or two sandwiches before the next barrage of perky advertising cancels out that easy lunch plan. I’ll wait for Netflix.

Fuck Netflix.

It’s been three months. I read it’s about a three month average for women to … to what? Recover? Get over it? Stop talking about it? There is no nonsense thing in my fridge to compare to this absence within me. I suppose I could say I am hungry. My empty belly desires what is not there. My heart hurts. My brain hates. Unfairness is not affected by the complaining of it. Crying doesn’t sway a thing in your favor. If it were a flavor, it would taste like the most delicious thing the tip of your tongue once touched momentarily after everyone else had a feast, and then that taste went extinct.

But life is not yet done, it’s got pounds of maggots to hand out. Appreciate your electricity, we are spoiled. We forget, have fits, drain batteries, and barely feel alive without a device. The forgotten rotten swarm with the flies. We should make ourselves sick.

Truly, it would be one constant retch if it weren’t for the kittens.