Now I’m tired of this mess, and I’m tired of this life, and I’m tired of this feeling, so I’m leaving tonight.
Oh, the places you will go, when you’re searching for a home, gotta knock a lot of doors, before you find one for your own. And the crosses that we bear, they’re not going anywhere, woven deep into my skin, I will take them and begin.
I’m supposed to let him miss me but if he writes me a lot and I ignore him why would I be worth missing? And if he’s too busy to write I’m supposed to just instinctively know that is bullshit and pick myself up and walk away but what, no dude has ever been too busy to write a message on time before? Like that’s not allowed? I just wanna do what makes me happy. I wanna do the thing that makes me wonder the least. Life rules confuse me.
But really, nothing is wrong and everything is great. I have a great life and nice friends and good things to do and there is nothing to be sad about and no reason to worry.
I don’t want to move and I don’t want to stay. Maybe, like Sylvia, I’ll just go mad ricocheting in between.
One year ago today (I guess yesterday) I went to the most amazing concert and then got stranded on my way home because a torrential downpour drowned my entire city and stopped all the subways.
I tried to imagine what it would be like if Constantin were my husband.
It would mean getting up at seven and cooking him eggs and bacon and toast and coffee and dawdling about in my nightgown and curlers after he’d left for work to wash up the dirty plates and make the bed, and then when he came home after a lively, fascinating day he’d expect a big dinner, and I’d spend the evening washing up even more dirty plates till I fell into bed, utterly exhausted.
This seemed a dreary and wasted life for a girl with fifteen years of straight As, but I knew that’s what marriage was like, because cook and clean and wash was just what Buddy Willard’s mother did from morning till night, and she was the wife of a university professor and had been a private school teacher herself.
Once, when I visited Buddy I found Mrs. Willard braiding a rug out of strips of wool from Mr. Willard’s old suits. She’d spent weeks on that rug, and I had admired the tweedy browns and greens and blues patterning the braid, but after Mrs. Willard was through, instead of hanging the rug on the wall in the way I would have done, she put it down in place of her kitchen mat, and in a few days it was soiled and dull and indistinguishable from any mat you could buy for under a dollar in the five and ten.
And I knew that in spite of all the roses and kisses and restaurant dinners a man showered on a woman before he married her, what he secretly wanted when the wedding service ended was for her to flatten out underneath his feet like Mrs. Willard’s kitchen mat.
Sylvia Plath The Bell Jar
I’ve always loved Pam and Jim on The Office but watching the show through from Season 1, when they first get together it almost feels wrong. It’s like, in real life, anything that needed so many years and so many false starts and so many happy coincidences to come together would probably never have a chance get to that happy point. You almost feel like Jim should be with Karen and Pam should marry Roy because that’s how life works. Most of the time, the person who should be the one for you isn’t really the one at all. And instead of throwing you together with your supposed one as many times as it takes you to finally stage a reaction, life is far more likely to shove you in the path of the one who’s going to pick up the pieces when you finally grow up enough to figure that out
44 days until I move awayayay!