I almost wish I had the will to gamble with some kind of medicated courage; I’m very certain some days that being high on something would likely make me a better writer than having to ride the wave of my own emotions to be creative.
Ugh. Responsibility. Am I right?
Could you imagine me on drugs?
I suppose it is probably best we do not find out just how far the depths of unhingery could go in the hands of a self-medicated feral woman.
Anyway, if I were I would probably be “The Oracle of Profound Wisdom Contingent Upon if She can Remember What She Just Said.”
(It's not a great name for branding, I guess.)
If you have not noticed I am writing with sheer reckless abandon because I’m 99.9% convinced no one reads these, so I may as well double down on the unhinged.
I’ll probably have the fate of Edgar Allen Poe or Emily Dickinson: Unnoticed until we’re dead.
Yes, I am avoiding the topic at hand.
Today I threw my engagement ring in the garbage.
It doesn’t feel any different.
It feels relatively the same.
“Such an awful shame.”
Alright fine.
Here are my non-avoidant thoughts on the matter:
I’m disgruntled that it must sit outside where I know it will be for another 24 hours and I must wait even longer to envision it rotting in a landfill or in the hands of some homeless scavenger desperate for a sign without realizing they have just unlocked seven years of bad luck.
Part of me is contemplating if I should be doing some sort of cleansing ritual to rid the home of any residual energy leftover from the proverbial binding to bad decision-making.
You might be thinking “Gosh she’s heartless.”
No, heartless is picking out baby names with your fiancé on a Friday knowing you intended to abandon your family on Sunday without telling anyone you will be across the country the next week, and then pretending it was her fault.
That has to be like level 100 in the Bad Karma Chapter of Life.
A humorous monologue about how it took you over two years to throw a worthless ring in the garbage is hardly a comparable villain story.
I’m just funnier than he is.
If I was still attached to it there would be something wrong with me and my ability to let things go.
And, I mean, arguably 875 days is a relatively long time to hold onto something with such little value, so I’m already not great at letting things go that serve no purpose for me.
It wasn’t even worth pawning.
So, I threw it out and then I wrote this.
The end.
Moving on.
Next Chapter: Throwing out the whole house.
x – Crystal
