Cupcakes For Depression
Green tea and looking through baking materials and then the phone rings and I have a job interview at a fantastic little place I used to go almost every day when I was at school. Unfortunately it’s in Karori.
Unfortunately, I don’t care.
“You either live in Karori to grow up or die” or something along those lines. You know who you are.
Either way I’m excited. Not going to lie. I’d be full-on awesome in this job. I’d be full-on fantastic awesome.
Oh also. Cupcakes For Depression Day. Philosophicalcatlover and I are having one. If you’d like to join in, then you are wonderful beyond words. Basically just going to create like crazy and take photo’s and upload that shit like it’s going out of fashion. Today is Tuesday, it’s planned for Friday. If you live in Wellington, you are more than welcome to come round and stage this with me. I am basically just going to bake cupcakes the whole day. Towers of them. With smiley faces and pill-capsules iced on them. Or something along those lines.
Food can be fun if you let it.
Doing no wrong
My mother goes out to the sit in the sun. I sit inside and stretch. Broke out in a sweat at the thought of weak Wellington summer. All my friends sitting outside a bar, on a busy pavement street, and me. I switch from wanting to be young forever, to not wanting to be young at all. And spinning coasters on a dirty table, not what I had in mind for something I’m going to tell my kids about. I would tell them my friends were fantastic and I looked like them. But I was not. I would say I coloured my hair red and stood alone at bus-stops feeling the eyes of people passing by and regretting every action I took to stand out. I would say I wore black jeans all the time, that my skin was too pale to be healthy.
I get the feeling I’d have to make up some stuff. Like I would croon the words to un-popular love songs from my window, boys who met me always brought flowers. That I always wore dark red lipstick and I never once doubted irrelevant things like the shape of my feet or nail-beds.
Called you names. Called you out. Strung you along. But you followed me willingly. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never said I was. Watching a movie with someone who sees me every day, I unwillingly study collarbones on screen and remember how still at my worse you smiled at me. I hate remembering. I hate the act of bringing memories up like past meals you ate too fast. I hate the realisation everyone has this stuff, all clogged up inside. Strangling their organs so sometimes it hurts to function. Sometimes it hurts to lie in bed. I hate more than anything, this constant dull repeating of fact: I have fewer memories than most. Anyone I choose to love from here on it, will be weighed down [and dying!] by these laughs and sunny days and amazing, fantastic, life-worth-living moments with someone else. Like everyone else is jaded because I choose to get angry at my memories, instead of sinking into depressed nostalgia. I imagine myself cellophane and waif-like. Where others, swollen and lumbering. Carrying the burden of their past joys.
It’s not my fault it is too easy for me to fuck it. Move on.
But it’s never really my fault, is it. SOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO OWN UP FOR SHIT.
I bet everyone else in Wellington right now is cursing the rain. Especially as it starts just before everyone leaves work to go home.
Not meeee. Been sitting in bed eating apples and vitamin C tablets. Then I built a fire.
If you live nearby you should be here.