Naturally my face is perfectly fixed with makeup in just the way I want when a conversation erupts prompting threatening tears to botch my work.
I hate being sad, miserable, and weepy. It’s the worst thing. I prefer anger and rage ten times over sadness. And it’s that kind of sadness that sits in your stomach and soul, fretfully waging tug-of-war while your heart plays a bumbling referee and your brain attempts to intervene with intermittent shut-downs.
In most situations I can easily make myself angry, find something or someone to be mad at for good reason, but this time the situation is totally devoid of any rage-inducing entities. Believe me, I have tried to be angry about this, I have worked tirelessly to find something to kick myself into what I like to call “Livid: Rage Queen of the Damned,” but nothing. I relish the anger sometimes, it’s so supportive in having me stick to the called-for best decisions. But this is different this time. I’m just sad. Everything I say and do, everything he does, it all just leaves me in a pit.
I’m supposed to go out with my friends for sushi tonight and I can’t get there fast enough. Someone, please, just bring me the sushi and let me cry into my plate while I stuff raw fish down my gullet.