OK, so at this age, I've finally accepted the fact that my love life will never turn out like the 1988 chart-topping song by the British pop band Breathe. I will never get a sweet caress; no one will calm my restlessness. I'm bound to toss and turn alone in my uncomfortable twin bed, waking to a tangled mess of bed sheets and an anxious rush to check that the cats are still breathing and didn't become casualties of yet another night of my subconscious giving me disturbing dreams regarding all the things I've done so well in my waking life to suppress. This is just a fact. Something I know and understand, and I'm seriously OK with that.
What I'm not OK with is waking up and checking my phone and suddenly remembering what I was doing on it before I crashed out.
Last night was one of those nights -- you know those nights where you recognize you should leave the house, but you've got that sneaky depression that convinces you that you really just need rest and that staying in is actually the healthy, emotionally-responsible thing to do. So you stay in, put the TV on for background noise, and you eat, and then eat some more, then eat some more, write some shitty prose about your mental illness, eat a little bit more, pet the cat, get emotional about how much you love the cat, start to get worried that maybe you have an unhealthy love for your cat, get annoyed with your own thoughts, think about eating again -- but you literally can't because of the indigestion -- so you start looking up things on the internet about the place you were going to go out to and the people who were going to be there, then you start looking up some people you don't need to be looking up, and then before you know it, you're in the dark depths of the internet. Most times when this happens, by morning, I completely forget where it was I traveled to in cyber space. Then when I grab my phone, it all comes flooding back to me in a rush of shame and realization of all the hours of my life I wasted on absolutely nothing. Usually, I find the typical stuff: comedy shows, horoscopes, exes, vegan recipes I'm convinced I'll make for work that week, pretty pictures of places that aren't a thousand degrees, puppets.
But this morning, I came across these disturbing little gems actually saved in my photos . . .
Very old women afflicted with Alzheimer's disease given fake baby dolls so they can pretend they're real and emotionally connect with them.
Now, I understand the concept behind this, but it is still emotionally crushing to me, especially the moment when it becomes clear again that these aren't real babies, and they are no longer of baby-making age.
Perhaps my latest internet wandering is just a manifestation of my aging fertility or a sign of PMS. Or maybe I'm just a sick fuck. And well, as we've already established, nobody asks a sick fuck to put their hands together and pray.
In Case You Were Wondering . . .
Sometimes Ronnie D writes funny stuff. Sometimes she writes desperate teenage prose. Most times she just slams her feeble, little woman-hand onto the keyboard in an attempt to feel something, anything.