Today I stole a cab from old people. I ran and beat them to the cab, in the rain. “Sorry, I’ve been waiting a long time.” I said as I slid into the back seat of the cab.

“Well so have we.” The old woman with the plastic bag on her head yelled back as she hit her umbrella on the trunk of the taxi. “So have we,” she repeated for impact.

I’m a terrible person sometimes. Mostly, I’m just lazy, but still. Not nice.

I don’t walk Linus enough. He hasn’t left the apartment in 2 days. I’m a terrible mommy to him. I come home and give him a treat to divert him, so he won’t paw at my head and lick up my nose and bring me dirty socks and underwear from the basket. My little bean needs outside time to run and stretch. Instead, I feed him. I’m absurdly lazy.

I shadenfruede too much.

I have a closet full of nothing to wear, and most importantly, nothing that fits. Let’s face it; outfits begin with Weather on the Ones. Outfits can depend on hair. If I’m going straight, I’ll wear something else, and if my hair is going up, then I can wear the earrings I love without worrying about the tangle. I have events approaching, and I’m clueless about the weather. Some men like me more dirty and unmade, like a worn, battered college teeshirt with faded lettering. Personally, I dig the wife-beater with diamond studs and a fabulous necklace, low-slung jeans, tweed pointy shoes, and a smile. Okay, throw in something vintage and we’re talking. Other men like me hanging out of small, packed tight. I do both willingly, but lately, the only running I’ve been doing is away from the scale. I’m getting fat. I feel it. I mean, I’m not crazy or anything; it’s not like I’m going to restrict myself to salad. Certain things just look better when you’re not spilling over. The only bad in losing weight is losing cleavage, but I prefer skinny jeans to fuller cups. Dieting makes me cranky; it makes me feel alone. And alone seems a little heavier than any weight I’d actually lose. And for the love of god, don’t analyze me. Don’t hem and haw me with the alone talk, or the you don’t need to lose weight. Just shut your hole, dear god. Spare us all.

Sometimes, even though I’m alone, I wear lingerie to bed. I’ve stopped taking the pill because I’ve stopped having sex (with other people). When I drink, I get feisty and pick fights, but when I’m drunk alone, I usually just frown and worry that I’ll have to settle. I worry that he doesn’t think about me. I resurrect exes and turn them into something they never were, idealizing us and holding new up to an old that never was. I eat more fries than I should and worry that I’ll never be that good at anything. I know I’ve got a lot of talents, but I’m not ridiculously good at any of them. There’s always someone else who does it better. I know I can only do my best, and I believe I do, but I don’t like that I never think it’s good enough. I need a bikini wax like you read about.

Yes, I’m alone, wearing lingerie, drinking bad white, worrying that I’ll never find my best… the one thing in the world that I can do better than everyone else. Right now, I’ve found my better than mosts. I want a best.