Glue your heart back together with mozzarella and paint it with pinot.
It’s almost been three weeks. The rest of the world seems to have jumped back into their routines while I still sit and sleep with this thing, or the loss of it, on an hourly basis and I’m reminded of it even more. In this instance, what, exactly, is the right response to “How are you?”
And maybe it’s because the effects are wearing off, but hearing that my insurance is no longer valid from the pharmacist filling my prescription for anti-depressants is just about the funniest thing I’ve experienced in the last two weeks.
I’m so tired of being poor and unimportant.
When Facebook asked why I was leaving my answer was simple and easy. “This is an improper use of my emotional labor.”
Much like my post-graduate education, I am paying for this thing that I don’t use all that much.
“He’s out there living his life, and I’m over here stress-eating jicama.”
I wish you a journey of yellow lights with a bored, smalltown cop riding behind you the entire time. I wish you lactose sensitivities and a gluten allergy at a restaurant that says they have a full gluten-sensitive menu but really only serves two salads. I hope that one of them is your all-time favorite salad and that while you’re enjoying it, a delicious bite goes down the wrong pipe and causes your life to flash before your eyes. I hope that someone in the room learned CPR about three years ago and saves your life, but also cracks a few ribs in the process. The therapist said that I’m not supposed to waste my time wishing you ill so instead, I wish you regularly inconvenienced.
I mean, if God wants to be cool with evil people, that’s his choice, but that’s a dealbreaker for some people. He shouldn’t hide behind Old English and metaphor. He should be upfront about that.
Christians need to be careful when talking about grace and forgiveness because they can have people thinking that God cares more about the reputation of the oppressor over the actual lives of the oppressed.