(my mom is an oil painter. she loves every side of me)

There are some people who only write in their journal when they're feeling good. Because those are the moments they want to remember, later, flipping through. I, on the other hand, only journal when I'm feeling blue. Or angry. Or jealous. And those are the moments I revisit if I turn back the pages. And what I see is a woman spending a lot of effort on something or someone that does not warrant it. But at least there is a something or someone. At least there is a subject, and therefore a plot. But today... there is just nothing. I feel (and look) like I have been crying all morning. I'm really crabby! And sensitive. And so easily wounded. So not easy to be around, even for me. But I can't seem to shake this girl. This drippy company. It's like I have an uninvited out of town visitor that assumes she is going everywhere I go- the cafe, the dog bone store, even to drop the fucking movie in the fucking drop box. Today is a fine day. There is nothing wrong with this day. It looks just like yesterday and is full of genius. Full of joy.

And I am not.

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