of sheer madness

It’s Monday, I missed my mum something fierce this weekend, and it’s time for another totally self-indulgent whine, because I’m mad. Let me break it down for you.

I’m mad that I’m the only one getting a kick out of my burgeoning collection of shoes with heels that get stuck between cobblestones – nobody in this country knows that before Holland, I traipsed rubber sandals through monsoon mud for seventeen years.

I’m mad that all the tropical plants I try to grow indoors go catatonic, then die on me. (I’m talking about YOU, baby banana tree.)

I’m mad that my favoritest people in the world have conveniently scattered across continents other than this one. I’m coaxing up new favoritest people here, but it takes more time and aches more than I want.

Lastly, I’m mad that I’m not quite sure what to do with my new degree except maybe decoupage it onto the surface of a large jewelry box.


Elderberry blossoms are overtaking the canal banks, and girls are peeling off their cardigans, and that cad of a sun is finally making an effort after all the couples’ therapy it and the earth rolled their eyes through during the winter.

Sap that I am, I can’t help but think that it’s going to be a grand Monday after all.