#or eat her white chili or stromboli or my grandmother’s funeral potatoes
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trying to find the metaphysical vegetable that may bring me less despair
#timothy's txts.#the food that is in my house is not nothing more than unfilling waste rn and it’s all i’ve eaten for ages#and i want something warm and homemade and filling#but i can’t go get anything because i don’t think this counts as essential during the strike#and everything is so heavy i wish i could be hugged by my mom#or eat her white chili or stromboli or my grandmother’s funeral potatoes#and it’s so hard to be hopeful when the bad thing you dread is actually happening#not pessimism not cynicism it’s just. reality.#but the past few days have felt like hell in my brain like i’m looking through the warping rubber wall of a fucking balloon#maybe it’s the preemptive grief#or maybe my body is finally giving in to the slick oil spill brain fog syrup that’s been swallowing me for the past three years#who can say !
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