I sat and thought about it. I contemplated why I was so angry. I was upset because everyone was acting like this was a moment to rejoice, actively or incidentally making me feel foolish for experiencing grief. It must be something really special to be so Christian you won't see any other options. That's their coping mechanism.

 

Perhaps underneath their praises, smiles, and happy prayers, they are just as cold, lonely, and confused. If they would show it, just a little bit, I think I would feel less angry. In the meantime I still feel at a loss on how to wrap my brain around this whole thing. I feel like I'm floating. All things are falling, out of balance, out of order, and time is whizzing by and spinning them in its jetstream of confusion. I am dazed.

 

Christmas morning, after work, was tiring. I barely kept from falling asleep on the ride home. Sir loved his gifts. I loved mine. I slept, but like every day, about four or five hours too little.

 

I got out of bed, took two ambien, and settled down on the couch to get some rest. Nothing happened. I looked over at the corriedale fiber on the table. Four ounces of "Orange Tabby." Just like Tom, just like the tattoo I was going to get. It had arrived in the mail, waiting for me for when I came home with the news. I took to my spinning wheel and started spinning like nothing else in the world mattered. Nothing else DOES matter. I spun for Grandpa.

 

I popped another two ambien. Illegal, but I needed sleep and couldn't mix anything else with the zolpidem. I let Sir know, in case I tried to do something stupid like drive off somewhere, but mostly I just spun. I tried sitting on the couch again, in case sitting up was keeping me awake, but I felt unaffected by my sleeping pills. I drew a nice, warm bath.

 

Then I guess I decided to see how much heat my legs could take before calling chicken. That's stupid. So I called Sir. I called him and I called him, but I wasn't sure he was there. The tub gets wider and becomes fluid in movement. The tub is slowly expanding. I know its plan. It intends to widen itself so that it takes longer to fill the tub, so that I can't sink to the bottom of it and drift away. I ask it why. Why would you want to do that? Out of spite? What's in it for you, tub?

 

I realize I am talking to a tub, so I shout louder for Sir. A few minutes later my legs are beet red and he is pulling me from the tub. I didn't mean for him to interfere – I just wanted him to know I was taking a bath and that I needed my purse. I guess. He gets angry at me and just sits there on the lid of the toilet, leaving me with absolutely nothing to do but stand in front of him. There's no incentive to go anywhere. Tub gets me sprayed with cold water. Couch gets the cushions all wet and I had forgotten a towel. Standing there pisses me off. I hate standing there silently, doing nothing. Is there some kind of telepathic conversation I'm not tuned into that he thinks I am? Why is he screaming at me? Why is he mad? Why isn't he DOING ANYTHING?

 

I go lay down on the couch anyways and get a restless hour before work over the noises of his parents's dog knocking things over, him coming and going, him getting angrier at me…

 

Now I am at work. I have new music to share with you if you enjoy female vocalists and metal. I also brought my spinning wheel. The whole wheel. To work. Because fuck everything, that's why.

 

"Crucifere" by Eths on Youtube:

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