Technically I’m supposed to be writing everyday. I’m taking David Sedaris’ Masterclass course and I’m supposed to keep a diary. Writer’s keep diaries.
I constantly have to be productive. I can’t sit still. I can’t just relax, not when there is something to get done. Even when you’ve just been in sweatpants, hair ties, and chillin’ with no makeup on for two solid months—there is always something to do.
Have you scrubbed the entire interior of your fridge? Have you rearranged your furniture to maximize room for activities? Have you filled every inch of your space with plants (of which you have familiarized yourself with their scientific names)? I think I’ve done everything there is to do except clean my makeup brushes.
Fuck makeup brushes.
I’ve spent the past half hour on IG sulking and reposting memes that compare 2020 to “Black Mirror” and then finding news about “Dave” getting renewed for season 2 and rejoicing. I don’t know why I post stories. I probably to it to show how relevant anything is and mostly to say something funny. That’s exactly it, I just want to be perceived as funny. 100%.
I’m not trying to stir up conversations via DMs, especially if you’re a man and we haven’t hung out on a pure friend-to-friend basis. It takes energy to evade men politely. Please note I said “politely,” I’m very close to just leaving messages on seen. If we’re being honest I don’t want the attention or conversation. There is no place in my life for a man right now, especially one I wasn’t checking for. I have no emotional availability for that.
The true love of my life isn’t gonna come through via DM. He’s just not, so let’s cut the bullshit.
In January I went to the doctor and I uttered the words:
I am interested in intrauterine insemination with donor sperm. I turn 37 in August and I would like to be referred to a fertility specialist.
I’ve said a combination of those words multiple times to different people on separate occasions but holy fuck… you have an out-of-body experience when you say it with such confidence to your gynecologist—I mean really… Shit. It’s wild.
I think I was high off endorphins for hours after that visit.
I should be going in for blood tests about now, the process should’ve started. But Covid-19 happened and well… that put a wrench in my plans.
I just wanna get the fucking show on the road.
I’m tired of refusing the advances of men I’m not interested in (I know, “boo hoo, poor me”), I’m tired of being this solo entity (sorry Tako, people don’t consider you to be my real child—they’re fucking crazy), and I’m mostly tired of not being able to move on to the next phase of my life just because I refuse to settle to settle down. Those are my true sentiments. I’d type that last statement again for emphasis but I’ve recently found I do that A LOT. (My Masterclass is making me hyper aware of my writing habits.)
I realize I’m setting myself up for a difficult journey.
I know this is a two person job (minimum, in most cases) but I tried finding that other person to be that other half for me and he just never showed up. I don’t have any more patience to hope or see if anyone is worthy of that position—at least for now.
I’m done waiting around, my eggs are done waiting around.
Hurry the fuck up, Coronavirus. Just die.
I’m trying to knock myself up.