Squinting at yet another milk-bleary day, I nearly break down into my cuppa coffee. I think, what the hell am I doing? I'm not in school, I'm not writing enough, I'm not reading enough, I'm not doing enough.

Of course, I slap myself out of it, the crippling moment of self-pity that seems to attend every winter, when the days are milk-bleary and the nights stripped cold and naked, the days and nights I might turn my critical gaze unto myself and, with my gleaming knife, flay skin from flesh. so many imperfections, i chant, (not enough!not enough? for whom?) unable to see, at that moment, that this is my skin, wholly and whole, neither imperfect nor perfect but something entirely different, something whole and irreducible.

//

and when I bump into Joanna on Shattuck, she reminds me, There are other things to worry about than yourself, dear. Evil corporations, the police-state, global warming, etc.

I blush, sheepish.

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