get a grip
the frank tables have a little too much finish on them, or maybe it's just years of wiping and re-wiping. sticky on my cheek. the world sideways. cup with an inch of chocolate milk at the bottem, wire napkin basket, stack of dirty plates, salt and pepper and sylvia's hand around a mug of tea. what a weird time and place for the tears to start coming. but it's been happening like this for i don't know how long.
whoops, if i re-read the stuff i type, i sound really depressed. it's not really this bad. i'm still functional, still occasionally breaking into spontaneous dance. and singing cher songs. everything still in order.
so i sit up and wipe my eyes with a napkin. don't know logically why i should feel this way. get a grip, caren. you're practically a stinkin' grown-up. hm. maybe that's why.