Tuesday af

Today was an eat my feelings sort of day. I almost decided to take a “mental health day,” something I have never done because of Jewish guilt, but ended up deciding against it: a choice I regretted when I got to the train for the first time and realized I had to go back for my wallet, and regretted again when I got to the train for the second time and realized some of my less essential cards (student ID, old insurance card, multiple punch cards with only one stamp) had fallen out of my wallet at some point between my bedroom and the train. Were these cards integral enough to my being to retrace my steps? Was it possible that they had just fallen out in my room and I would be making a second trip back to my apartment, unnecessarily? These are all questions one should not have to ask one’s self when one is already late to work and depending on a train that only comes five times an hour on a good day. I ended up going with the more hopeful, and more impotent, option of getting on the train and hoping for the best. But since I was already feeling sensitive, I figured I might as well lean into it and listen to Michigan by Sufjan Stevens while gazing ruefully at the floor of the train.

I expected the eating-my-feelings situation to be more of a “crushed by the inequalities of the patriarchy and my part in it, both as oppressor and oppressed” kind of day and it ended up being more of a “splashed by a puddle projectile vomited from the road by an oncoming car in a comically stereotypical way” kind of day. That is to say, it was more of an “eat an extra cookie ’cause I deserve it” sort of day than an “eat a gallon of ice cream using a sugar wafer as a spoon” sort of day.

Isn’t it a pleasant surprise to be less nihilistic and existential than you expect yourself to be? It’s like finding a twenty dollar bill in your pocket, and also finding yourself able to disregard the destructive and illusory nature of capitalism at the same time.

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By the way, friends, on my way back from the train I found the cards that fell out of my wallet strewn across the wet sidewalk. Well, I found our therapist’s business card, a punch card from a salon I went to once, and my friend’s band’s sticker. All the cards that were actually worth something were gone, unsurprisingly. Some asshole is going to be getting into museums at a discount with my student ID. Fuckers.

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