I remember the sheer beautiful escapism as I perused the grainy-covered quality paperbacks in the history and the microbiology sections of Borders when my shift was over. To my consumer's soul, it was paradise.

 Am fatigued. Lily is confused. Sniffing everything. Some company stopped by about solar today. Our trash bin must be picked up an additional day this week.

 Always on the cusp. Always. Almost done watching The Decameron. Ready to go outside and play. And walk and stand. Feel hale and hearty. Not be so overheated. Where did I run to? Haunted. The hotels were wearing. I can't be broken. I have Tasks. The Cusp this time could actually be the cusp.

 Have worn out looking for the old the established

 Look, I'm not trying to be ungrateful. And for it to be thrown in my face every time I let a concern slip just seems mechant. I'm maneuvering the shit thrown at me in the most truthful way I can. I'm not perfect. Quit expecting it of me. This loneliness is real. I'm not making it up. I'm sorry that I'm suffering so much. I know I ain't the only one. I know a lot of it's cerebral. I know that there are humans going through depths of sorrow that are unfathomable to me. You want me to let you know I'm in pain, but then you twist it so that I feel I must hide it again. I'm not comparing our pain. Mine is not superior or inferior or false. I'm expressing it, maybe even trying to set it free. I'm wallowing. I'm aware of that and attempting not to. I wasn't raised with coping mechanisms. I have to come up with them on my own. So quit fcking judging me for it. Quit telling me to be kind to myself and then coming after me with pitchforks. I'm tired of the whiplash.

 Things that seemed to help: less reddit, bothy vids on YouTube, Midnight Mass instead of Good Girls.

 It's 80. The wind is a miracle. A nifty campervan with two bikes on it just left the lot. My hair is getting in my face.