i killed the sofa.

and i’m weeping about it.

hiding from my kids style.

because i approached the handmedown sofa with a drill and a hammer and the screws and nails needed and i couldn’t fix it. and maybe i made it worse, because now no one else will ever be able to undo what i have done.

and in combination with my depression about not finding men that i want in my life, i am finding a lot of fault in my inability to fix the fucking sofa.

i told my kid i needed to be the person who does all this stuff. and i can’t . i can’t do all this stuff.

which leads me to men, again, which then leads me back again, and again, to my desire to fix my own fucking sofa. and yet, i have killed it. dead.

so i’m withdrawing from my life for the afternoon. on a chair. because its becoming way bigger than a sofa.



and all i want to do is apologize for this post, because no one needs to feel sorry for me, or pay attention to rambling self-pity.


Leave me your words! thoughts! sweat, blood, and tears not really needed but okay, if you want... :)

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