angry but the anger is just sadness in a hat

Came home from a screening last night and ate something quick and knocked out hard at midnight but then woke up feeling anxious at 3 a.m., couldn’t get back to sleep. I resolved a couple months ago that whenever this happens I should just sit up and start watching the next movie on the List, even if I can only get through a couple scenes, but I decided this time to just lay there in the dark. Pet the dog. Think.

Thoughts go right away toward Rosie and I don’t know if I’m hewing close to the Seven Stages, or something like it, but I’m feeling a little angry. It’s not real anger, though; I know that because if I just clear my head, and think of her, I feel a twist in my stomach that’s just the same old thing. Remorse, I guess.

So I was sitting there in the dark and started thinking about the tasks ahead of me for the day and wondering if it might not be best to get outta bed and start working, take a nap later in the day.

But I just stayed there. Turned over at some point to see if I could still smell her hair on the pillow from when she stayed over on Wednesday. I couldn’t.


The anger’s definitely a thing, though, and I’m seeing it manifest in the way I’m overreacting to little frustrations. Today at the laundromat I put a modest amount of clothes into an oversized machine, a more expensive machine, but didn’t realize the mistake until I’d already put some money in. I tried switching to the smaller, cheaper, more appropriate machine, but it was too late. I couldn’t get my coins back. I had to waste a dollar on an oversized machine and I was angry enough to burn the place down.

This morning at Starbucks my card got declined and when I called the bank they put me through to a representative named Trevor who asked if I’d bought some gas in Houston Texas just two hours earlier and I thought, Yes, Trevor, I’ve teleported back to Miami for some coffee, but didn’t say it. Just sighed. So my card’s been cancelled and another’s being overnighted to my apartment and I’m short on cash anyway, so I’ll be late with bills, which is its own bag of insecurity and anger and worry — none of which would be resolved if I could trade memes with R, and have her over to watch Vine compilations over a box of $5 pizza, but the blow’d be softened, and I’d sleep easier, leaning on a person who means a lot and who genuinely doesn’t give a shit if I’m broke or agitated or not quite where I oughta be in life, security-wise.

What I’m realizing she gave me, among other things, is a healthy remove from shit like this. Perspective. The fact that I’m going into my savings to pay the rent feels calamitous and awful and degrading in the echo chamber of my head, and it haunts me all day and darkens the clouds and sours my food, but then she’d roll up and slip into bed and curl against me with her freakish latenight warmth and frigid feet and she’d start quoting Bee Movie there in the dark with me, or she’d recite Whitney Houston lyrics, or we’d sit up gossiping until an irresponsible hour, both of us needing to work in the morning, and when she’d come around to do stuff like this it was suddenly hard to think about my bank statement and job and the judgment of peers as though they mattered very much.

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