Does Tom Cruise sell vitamins?

Today is not a good day.

It’s sunny and warm, but I have to admit, I yearn for rain. Even better would a nice thick rolling layer of fog. I can’t shake this funk, but let’s face it, I’m not trying to, either. Scarlett is in school, an expensive daily retreat, and she’s doing fine. Perhaps this is my way of not worrying about her. I don’t know, I’m indecisive and I hate it. Sometimes I wonder if these short moments of clarity, moments when I realize how much I suck, present themselves because the cloud of medication thins. I don’t want this…I don’t want to take medication to only sometimes feel worthy of natural resources. What’s the point? Dulling my wits doesn’t do much except piss me off and make me feel dumb. Perhaps it’s graduate school. I’m not sure I could have more to do in a week. Of the 500 pages I’m supposed to read for ONE of my classes, I currently on page 10. I could vomit thinking about my shortcomings in academia. I’m a phony, I can’t produce, I’m not a capable writer. I know why Hemingway drinks. I don’t compare mine to his salty text. I’m eating sushi with my fingers because I forgot a fork or chopsticks, of which I probably couldn’t decide. I hate myself for not flying. My doctor prescribes meds, again, to ease the anxiety produced by that thin metal tube of death, but I probably still won’t fly. I can’t be medicated for a month until the trip. I want to tell you not to read this, but who am I kidding? I’m disgusted with myself and my inadequacies so why shouldn’t you know? You hate me because I seem so cynical, sarcastic, snobby, and whatever else, but who are you kidding? You don’t really know me, how I feel, what I do, how my daughter looks at me. I wonder if she thinks I’m a phony? I hate that I obsess. I’m sick of critiquing my choices, second guessing myself. I spent thirty minutes today wandering the aisles of the bookstore choosing between two different calendars that I don’t really need because I have a pda. I have to see my schedule, write it, list my to-dos and obsess. There is no possible way I can spend the rest of my life like this. At some point this relentless list of what I NEED to do has got to stop. I’m tired of it. I just want to be able to go out and work and learn and play and be without all of this garbage that continually pops up in my head. I am so tired of NEEDING to get things done. I write this with the full realization that I have the inability to have nothing to do. Perhaps I’m destined to be unhappy…except where Scarlett is concerned. She makes me happy. She is my sanity, but that’s too much to ask from a child. She needs to be able to live her life for herself and not because I need her to be happy. If that makes sense. You’re judging me, I know you are. Is that what I have to look forward to the rest of my life? Being judged? I know people don’t care whether I buy the weekly planner or the monthly planner, but I know there is a tally. Someone sees the chipped nail polish, the roots. Someone reads the weak writing, hears the mispronunciation. Why can’t I just let this shit go? Now you’re lost in the rambling. The punctuation cluster fuck that is this writing. You’re going to hold me to this. Look at me with those eyes that read my pain and see me as a forlorn self-obsessed loon. When I’m happy tomorrow, you won’t understand.