The parties went well enough, I drank whiskey in cider, and then, just cider. But I don't drink often anymore so it gave me a headache. I laughed too much and too hard and made myself light headed. To the point I was sure I was about to pass out. A brief reprieve, everything seemed okay, if a little heightened, but about halfway through the second party I realized how hard I was acting. Ah well. I put on my giant furry hat to try to make up for it.

Woke up okay this morning, rubbed some toes, but only a few hours later I stare at the books I should be organizing, all the things I should pick up off the floor; I sit in the silence with the collar of my sweater pulled up to my nose, and the echo record stuck on my least favorite tune.

I'm married to a man who loves me, who I love dearly. I have a job I enjoy, one that deserves me as much as I deserve the work. In some ways I am happier than I have ever been, ever, period, dot. End of story.

Yet here it is, stronger than ever: the wish the earth would swallow me whole.

But talking is better than not talking, I suppose.