January 22, 2011
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From a 1938 National Geographic
In the morning I bolt upright because I fear I've slept through the beginning of my shift at the library. In fact, I don't have to be there for another two hours. I leave my room and the kitchen is a mess. We are suddenly an apartment of girls too sad to do the dishes.
I make coffee and get in the shower. I dry my hair and turn my music up. I make hard boiled eggs. I don't like the taste of them, but I find the whole process of eating them too pretty to pass up--the bowl full of fragments of egg shell, the soft, yellow middles surrounded by glassy white.
I've been having a lot of long talks with my best friend. This past year has made me harder, somehow. Kate says I can be difficult to approach, and she's right. My internal rages sometimes cause me to seal myself to the entire outside world. I can feel it, this thing that bares its teeth at any question of my competence, any outward suspicion that something is not right or that I cannot handle it. She says I'm unaware of the number of people I intimidate. The picture of myself that I hold in my mind is one of absolute weakness. I do not know how these two things connect to one another--how one becomes the other--but they do.
Sometimes.
h.
Comments (1)
I adore hard boiled egg whites. With mustard. I know this because I love mustard and have pretty much tried in combination with anything I've ever eaten. I don't have much use for the yolks, though, unless they're warm and still soft.
Your post makes me think of that Alain de Botton quote I had in my tumblr - about how anger is a result of naive optimism. I thought of it and of you and decided it might make sense. Your internal world can be so lovely - it's no wonder the real one disappoints.
x.g.
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