Pass the butter, please

Accomplishment is found in nine dinner rolls. Silent gratitude turns to attitude. Spinning my wheels, screeching to a halt. Try to count the feelings that flew by. I dare you.

Double dog. Double dutch.

Too many things to juggle and maintain focus and maintain a smile and maintain finger nails that haven't been gnawed down past the point of nail bed comfort.

So it has to stay small and it has to stay manageable and it has to remain within sight, within grasp.

The tub is shallow and can easily overflow. And I just have to wonder where Mr. Bubbles is when I need him. He's gone for the day, he's out to lunch, he's back in five.

Not here, not now, not here, not now.

And so I return to the dinner rolls. With a sense of accomplishment in my stomach.

Streaming

Breathe in. I find myself lying to people about problems they're having - as if I'm having the same problems. Because otherwise my response is, "That's because you're doing it wrong." It's better to end the conversation with, "Yeah, I don't know either." Walk away. It's a Tuesday Monday. Wednesday will feel like a Wednesday and Thursday will feel like a Thursday. Friday will be too long and stretch into Saturday. Reptar. Sometimes I'm trying to type, "Stupid" and I type, "Student" instead. Same goes for "walking" and "working." I keep thinking the woman on my box of chocolate is Geena Davis. Blink, blink. I want to rest my eyes for longer. My nails are never long - I'm a biter. When I do quit, and I've quit a time or seventeen, I tend to dig my nails into my skin - don't know why. Replacement nervous habit? Which is the lesser in self destruction? Inflicting pain or eating small bits of my body? (Yes, I eat the nails. I'll acknowledge that it's gross, but I'm not going to apologize for that. That's the tip of anyone's iceberg.) I don't understand people who are perpetually late. I'd think that would mean they'd always be sick to their stomach, but it doesn't. I want a belly free of panic. Why is there an added 'k' when it becomes panicked? Picnic. It feels like the end of the school year, bracing for summer vacation. One unintended comment leaves me running for cover to recover - but recover from what, I don't immediately know. I'm a three-ring circus. My lion has escaped and my elephant is a gimp. My legs are stubbly. I remember a time when I was so excited to shave my legs. I had been the last girl (girl? lumberjack) standing. Silky days are gone. Milky. I don't know why milk and pizza ever seemed like a good idea, but it was. Milk is an accessory now. What happened to milk commercials? It's what's for dinner. And I helped. Breathe out.