I have made three big changes in my life recently. These are things I sort of said I would never do again – never say never! -but I did them anyway: I cut my hair, I went on antidepressants and I started smoking again. And I’m super happy about two of those decisions.
My hair looks, if I do say so myself, awesome. It is the haircut that my mother and Annie bugged me to get and I stubbornly resisted since I was about, um, 25. Rarely united, my mother and Annie, but on the subject of Felicity Would Look Better with Short Hair they were as one for thirty years of not particularly subtle hints. Naturally I insisted on keeping it long. But then a couple weeks ago in a fit of not being able to stand myself anymore (not even in the dusty mirror in the darkness of the back hall – my fashion tip for ladies of a certain age is always, always, maintain a dust covered mirror in a barely lit corner of your house, you will look amazing in it, the Evil Queen knew her stuff) I went and got it taken off by the utterly brilliant Cody at Blue Ribbon. Now it’s slightly above shoulder length and choppy and my gawd, through the miracle of good hair, it seems to have gotten rid of my double chin. I am never – there’s that never again – going back to long hair.
And then I started up on the antidepressants, specifically lexapro, again. There were a couple of false starts – I am hopeless at remembering to take pills every day and also I cannot, apparently, handle the full dose recommended but do better on half a dose – but then, last week, I suddenly realized that I felt – better. Okay. Decent. There was light in the world. And I had vacuumed the living room and I wasn’t lying in bed thinking about various interestingly bizarre methods of suicide. I can’t quite believe it, but I don’t feel like I am trapped in a tiny cage with a hamster wheel and Morrissey on autorepeat forever anymore. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not, like, PERKY or anything, gods forbid – but I am no longer paralyzed and constricted and wrapped in sorrow like a hair shirt. I feel okay! I can get things done! It is fucking amazing! So now I have finally figured out what a psychologist told me years ago: I have to stay on them. Forever. Well, okay then. It’s worth it.
But then there is the smoking. God damn it. Two and a half fucking years down the drain due to grief and stress and being around more people who smoke than usual. I’ll just have a drag, I said, and then I went to, well, can I roll one? I’ll just roll my own, which faded imperceptibly into I’ll just smoke when I’m drinking which has gone into fuck it, I give up. I’m right back to smoking half a pack a day, fuck, what a moron I am. I swore I would never ever do this again and here I am. But I will quit again, I swear it, and this time I will get the tattoo I was planning before, to remind me, to look at on my arm and tell me don’t pick that goddamn cigarette up, no, you cannot have just one.
In other news I am sorely addicted to yet another couple of demonic King games. One of them is called Alphabetty and it’s an incredibly annoying little word game that drives me crazy but I cannot stop. Even though I am not, honestly, all that good at it. If I stare at the screen long enough I manage to convince myself that everything is a word – fnord! It’s got to be in the dictionary! Ruislaen! Sneert! – and that doesn’t go any better in Alphabetty than it does in Scrabble. And then, if that and Bubble Witch weren’t bad enough, I started playing Paradise Bay, a deeply evil tropical cousin of SimCity Buildit, which I have been addicted to for yoinks now. These are the kinds of games where you have to keep making stuff to trade and getting materials and all in all, it’s a lot like work and why, why am I so compelled to continue? Like I’m lying there in bed thinking, well, if I grow enough cotton I can make more nets and catch more shrimp and then grill that and then trade it and then. . . yeah. I should be getting paid for this. At least when I played Minecraft I could kid myself that it was creative. But it is what it is, and I have to go now: my mill jobs are ready.