At some point despair seems kind of funny or something, like you cry yourself into a laughing fit, and it starts mid-conversation with the insurance agent named “Mike” who sounded about 12 years old and to whom I went bonkerinos wailing away about the sky falling on my vehicles all the time like God sends weather to reflect my personal life which is serially cold as hell, just plain shitty, and occasionally balls out disastrous, and now I’m headed into hysterics caught between a fuckhead at a dealership likely to take forever and make the roof leak when he has to saw the god damn thing off and another fuckhead at the insurance preferred collision chain who wants to charge half as much to “pop those craters right out” and I might just have a nervous breakdown (which would look like what worse than sobbing all this into the phone at a Mike?). He said he’d look into it, clearly frightened. The next agent was “Wendy”, an elderly woman with a chain-smoker’s voice, who called back and started with “So, I hear you’re having a bad week?” But then as she was calming me down, Mark (the yoga studio owner) called to cancel the retreat bc of hurricanes hitting more than a month before the official rainy season so I’m not going on the retreat and am out nearly a grand on the flight. I’ll spend allll next week here without the boys, sleeping aloooooooooooone no doubt as Zorba watches the god damn Euro Cup in a bar with some coeds. [my love stars for today: A series of long days have left you feeling worn out. Let your sweetie know that a little TLC would be much appreciated. A soak in a warm bath followed by a back rub will help you melt that tension away.] And that’s when all the blood ran out of my heart and into brain-blown wawa giggles, loloooolol. Even the Dalai Lama can pretty much kiss my ass at this point. And fyi, I’ve cried so much in the last week, that between me and Ectoplasm a house party’s worth of spirits have had their way slimed and primed, and I’m sending them all to curse the crotches of Canadian coeds with open sore herpes. And no, I don’t care what that does to my damn(ed) karma.
