My life is normally calm and peaceful, interrupted only with me-approved moments of crazy fun madness. My life is not supposed to be stressful enough to cause an eruption of zits worthy of 7th grade fame on my face. My life is clearly not intended to leave me feeling so out of sorts that the muscles in my upper back are knotted up to the point that I am hunched over like Quasimodo.
I'm experiencing an interruption in my serenity. My boyfriend, who is my sounding board, is out of town. In other words, I can't easily vent, vent, vent to him as is my habit when life goes wrong. I've blabbed as much as I can to other close friends but I'm still not close to recovering my tranquility.
To add insult to injury, I have nothing at home to read. Reading has always been and will always be my escape from reality. Others reach for a fifth of vodka, I reach toward the bookshelf. Books got me through entire summers during the ugly years: when you didn't fit into any group, you didn't like the friends you had, you couldn't make the friends you wanted, you were smack dab into the middle of the Ugly Duckling stage of growth and you desperately wished you had a different existence. Nope...I can't even get that relief right now. I think I've read every book in my house at least four times.
The karmic wheel needs to turn. I promise to let everyone on the road cut in front of me. I promise to park in the spot farthest from the grocery store door. I promise to think kind thoughts while waiting, waiting, waiting my turn in the copy room at work. But please, O Great Gods Who Control It All, please ease up a bit on me. I need a good night's sleep. No nightmares. No sinking feelings. Please take care of this one issue and give me a tiny break. And a Valium would be nice as well.