It's three twenty-four in the morning.
It's three twenty-four in the goddamn morning, and I can't sleep, and I haven't been sleeping, and I'm bloody tired and goddamn it.
Honestly, I'd love to be able to do this thoughtfully, in a humming little narrative that kind of flows through your brain, like Sarah Jessica Parker, when she says, for the millionth syndicated time, "I couldn't help but wonder..."
Yeah, you know what? I can't help but wonder why I can't fucking sleep. Wonder that, Carrie.
Oh, Christ.
Here's the thing: It's the eleventh month, right? I mean, you'd think we'd be used to this by now, right?
I just got a cute fucking haircut, goddammit! I look better than I have in a whole year and that includes the day my sister got married and I was laced and coiffed and painted by goddamn professionals. Ok? Better than that! I BOUGHT A CUTE SHIRT YESTERDAY!
When do I get a day? Huh? When do I get a day that isn't just tinged and singed and goddamn shat upon by misery and grief and goddamn anger? I�m tired of this shit.
You know, call it selfish if you want, but I'm very, very angry right now. My father is falling apart. My mother's heart is broken. My sister has to figure out how to cook just for two people for the first time in her life, and she has to do it without letting tears fall in her minestrone.
I think I'm mad at Frankie, and that doesn't make sense, which is just making me angrier.
I'm going to Chicago in a few days, and I can't decide what shoes to bring. And you know, I don't think it's fair that I should have a dead brother and still not know how to pack a suitcase.
I want my other sliding door, dammit. I want to know what would have happened if I'd missed the train. I want Bill goddamn Murray to slap that alarm clock until we get it right.
I want another chance. I want the universe to see that, look! We're moving on! La vita continua! See?! Didn't have to take Frankie away in the first place. Didn't have to do it. Give him back now, please.
I'm seven. I am grappling with the emotional intelligence of a seven year old. Is insomnia the 32-year old�s version of a tantrum? Or can I just break things until it feels better?
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