Oh hello At my desk, pausing, sipping my licorice tea, gazing out the window, listening to ultraviolence, pausing again, pious, spiritual, beginning now to hover a few inches above my chair, working on accepting my body, my relationships and, ultimately, my life for what they are. At first, performing this ritualistic acceptance feels, let me tell you, like becoming that person you knew in high school, who, many years later, encountered CBT and gives weekly FB updates on breathing exercises. But over time, adopting this approach with metronomic regularity to the texts I send, the conversations I’m having, the frequency with which I shrug and roll my eyes, what initially seemed like a belligerent grief has shifted to a deeper reckoning with what I can control and what I can’t. It can be depressing to accept the incompleteness of my life and the limited capacity for those things to change, but then, after a while, it liberates.
Revenge of the Scapegoat and Happy Hour
Revenge of the Scapegoat and Happy Hour
Revenge of the Scapegoat and Happy Hour
Oh hello At my desk, pausing, sipping my licorice tea, gazing out the window, listening to ultraviolence, pausing again, pious, spiritual, beginning now to hover a few inches above my chair, working on accepting my body, my relationships and, ultimately, my life for what they are. At first, performing this ritualistic acceptance feels, let me tell you, like becoming that person you knew in high school, who, many years later, encountered CBT and gives weekly FB updates on breathing exercises. But over time, adopting this approach with metronomic regularity to the texts I send, the conversations I’m having, the frequency with which I shrug and roll my eyes, what initially seemed like a belligerent grief has shifted to a deeper reckoning with what I can control and what I can’t. It can be depressing to accept the incompleteness of my life and the limited capacity for those things to change, but then, after a while, it liberates.