a wasteland.

you should see the bottom of my purse right now. for anyone who thinks i have my life together--or ever, at any point in time, had my life together--you should see the bottom of my purse. goldfish. cracked and smashed and week-old, forgotten goldfish. of the cheddar persuasion--you know, the kind eight year olds eat?  yes, week-old goldfish that i haven't had the energy or time to take care of just sitting there, mucking up my purse and everything in it.

muck feels like a good word for my life right now.

stuck in the muck. the mud. (actually, i got a few other choice words for it, but i'll refrain).

tom, i'm in it right now, i said this morning when i saw him.

you are?

yes, look, i said pulling out my purse and brandishing its contents like a...like a something. i don't know.

life made manifest in the form of a littered purse.

you should see my room. my apartment.


tom took a good look at it, looked at me, you know everyone should have some weeks when the bottom of their purse is little more than littered goldfish.

i sure as hell hope he's right. he usually is.