There are pork chops marinating in my fridge. Delicious, healthily pink, succulently nestled into their sea of rosemary-mustardy-garlicky-goodness, pork chops. They have been a meal in the making for two days, counting defrosting and marinating time. They are beautiful. They are good for me. They're right there, just waiting to be pan seared and baked.
I'm not gonna eat 'em and you can't make me.
It's one of those weeks that begin with a bang and end with a whimper, usually yours, because a whimper is all you can manage after the thousand natural shocks which flesh is heir to have finally wound down (I think it's a Taser). It's one of those weeks where had been smart I would have followed my initial instincts and hunkered down under the duvet, armed with trashy fiction and a beer hat filled with Bavarian cream filling from donuts on one side and Diet Coke on the other. I should have taken the time to ponder; I might have finally gotten started on that comprehensive list of my superpowers (does being really, really crabby count? Like, if it's uber-crabby, and so uber that there is even an umlaut over both the u and the a?).
But no. I ignored all of those baser instincts and emerged from my cocoon, reasoning that sloths don't have cocoons and so neither should I. I sallied forth into the world ready to meet the universe; but the universe had been training while I was still trying to find that other goddam black peep toe pump, and the universe kneed me in the soft bits and then rabbit-punched me in the kidneys while I was still bent over holding myself and muttering "No, really, that's okay, I'm sure it was an accident."
Stupid universe.
And it's only Wednesday. It's Wednesday, and I have already suffered the equivalent of an emotional bastinado, performed with rubber hoses to Elton John's Greatest Hits. And for no reason whatsoever; but they are all against me. I can feel it. It's a hundred degrees out there, this afternoon as I realized that while I could answer yet another question about procedure what I really wanted to do was staple something to my coworker's face, and I'm wearing a pair of pants that are of the "Well, they weren't this tight last year but the hell with it" variety. (Don't judge. At least I'm wearing pants.) I could go for a pound of bacon, but then the house and my hair would smell of bacon, and I am Not Emotionally Equipped to deal with that. I could read a book, but I don't want to. I could take a bath, but it's just not worth the effort. And then I'd have to put on pants again. I could knit, which I probably ought to do, but again a sulky malaise has crept over me. I have tired of licking the salt and vinegar off the potato chips and then discarding the used and slightly soggy remaining chip. If I were four I'd probably need to be spanked and set down for a nap.
What brought it on? What? How is it that you can have the work mojo flowing, a good hair day, throw on a pair of jeans and find that you don't muffin top out of them, and in a matter of days have it all be ashes, ashes? Why can I cheerfully, sweetly answer every question put to me at work and the next day discover that they are asshats to a man? How can I take offense at a pork chop because I'm pretty sure it was giving me the stinkeye, and bitterly crunch my way through breakfast cereal served directly from the box, because that will effing show them all? How can I realize almost twelve hours before the event that I would rather be anally probed by a rabid monkey on steroids than have to suffer through another workday surrounded by suckholes who don't realize that I deserve chocolate, new shoes, a pound of bacon, decent hair, a massage, and a nap, as well as absolutely anything else I could possibly want at a moment's notice, with the right to not have to want it after I get it? How can I so easily abandon my mantra in trying to recognize my limitations ("I can't kill everyone") to the earlier and yet far more satisfying "I WILL KILL ALL OF YOU!!!!!"
I could do it, too. Maybe I'm not a planner, but I have a basement full of crap and parents who live in rural Nevada. Just try me, buddy. Just try and see! You'll be getting a beating with a rubber hose all your own, and I'll wear earplugs and YOU will have to listen to the whistle of the hose and the whine of knowing that you're getting beaten by a Tiny Dancer, indeed. Yeah, THAT'S RIGHT.
And just when I have worked myself into primal, feral, monkey-screech levels of rage, I suddenly do some mental calculations, and realize that it will be okay soon. No, really. Maybe every single person I know in the entire world isn't an asshat. I am just in the grip of that deadly superpower, the PMS Avenger. Hunker down, pray for daylight, and this too shall end.
Not before I spend a week killing off a kidney jacked up on ibuprofen and aleve...but it will end.
Stupid, stupid universe.
I'm still not eating those pork chops.
