Four nights in a row of social activity and I am broken. I mean, I’m happy, and I love my beautiful and talented friends who have excellent personalities and are delightful. My life is, in general, an awesome thing filled with awesome and topped with awesomesauce.
But this morning I am also a tiny little shell-shocked smudge on the couch, sort of staring at things on internet without really processing them and getting vaguely annoyed by articles that are slide shows that shouldn’t be slideshows you have to keep CLICKING through because they should JUST BE ARTICLES.
I’m so tired. Everything is sore in my everywhere. And that includes my delicate spirit and my sensitive soul, which is regarding the idea of going out again tonight with just the tiniest bit of dread. Every time I doubt that I’m actually really and truly an introvert because I can turn on the bright halogen spotlights and be Personality Plus! (or Minus, depending on your feelings about my personality) at a social event, when I come home and curl up tight in a tiny little ball and cover my head with a pillow and two dogs and shake for awhile in a dark room, I am reminded that maybe I do have a little introvert in me.
And then I am utterly useless the next day. There is so, so, so much I have to do, and somewhere deep inside me I am panicking in a high-pitched keen, but I am inescapably an inert lump, a pudding, a sugar-glazed zombie who is very cross with the person who turned up the gravity because it’s getting really hard to get out of bed and walk around in here, buddy. And I can’t make myself stand up and take a shower or put on pants and if I could crawl from the bed to the couch (or better yet, summon some manly young meaty thing to carry me gently and tuck me in and press a warm soft kiss on my forehead and caress my cheek and whisper, “you are so lovely” and then quietly, politely back out of the darkened room and leave me the fuck alone while I nap and a Doctor Who I’ve seen a thousand times plays in the background) I would.
Four days of makeup and dresses and shoes with heels higher than anyone with my (lack of) grace should not be attempting to wear in public and trying to be charming and staying upright and talking and being talked to. It’s like I’m trying to kill myself. At least I will leave behind a nicely-made-up corpse in good shoes. Bury me in my silk kimono in a plot way out in the back and behind a tree or under a rock or in a basement or shoot me out into space where they’ll never find me. And take a short but meaningful vow of silence in my memory.