FUCK THE WORLD AND DON’T ASK ME FOR SHIT.
This is one of those days when I wish my office building had a School Store. Fully stocked and hidden in a spare closet with a half-door just like the one from 4th grade. And it’d be a day when I’d have a few ones in my pocket and get permission to run down, forget about what work needs to be completed, and buy something completely unnecessary. Nothing really cures the blahs like a fresh, bright-green, glittered mechanical pencil- the kind with the stackable lead and the eraser that smells like limes, and rubber, and pencil, all at the same time. Or a sticker book? Something with rainbows on it? A folder with a neon unicorn? A crisp, pink notepad? Pretty school supplies have equaled therapy for like 40 years. This doesn’t change just because the escaped tedium comes with a paycheck. Work Stores should be a thing.
This is one of those days where I fantasize about finding someone in front of me in line at Wawa, who suddenly turns and says, “Really? Me too!” and all her short, chubby, busty, nerdy, awkward, witty, snarky, petty, naughty, crafty, goodness just oozes wordlessly out of her pores. I see her ooze and she sees mine and the only logical thing is for us to immediately say in unison, “Best friends, right?” And of course, we then are. And we have the all the same interests. Our frequency of communication is perfectly matched. Our perimenopausal cycles, synced. Our carb indulgence and avoidance tendencies are not just sisters, they are twins. And our dudes like each other too, right? Because–of course. And, as such, today, I could call her, my perfectly curated friend, and vent about my week! And all that tedious friend finding and testing and vetting and trying and shuffle-dancing that we do in our 40s while trying to make friends is just so not required.
It’s one of those days that I wish people really understood that “you ask the question you really want to be asked” applies to so much more than questions. I would like to translate for everyone who knows me. In my language, that phrase can also stand in for “you buy the balloons you want to be handed and you plan the celebrations you want to attend.”
It’s my anniversary. And for the first time in 11 years, it one of those days. Bummer.
/damsel
Not Your Average Damsel 
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