On disappointment

WARNING TO READER : POETRY AHEAD

“What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?”

 - Langston Hughes

“Hope deferred makes the heart sick.”

- The Bible

Our hearts are sick.

Sick with the disappointment of allowing ourselves to hope, with the hope of not being disappointed ‘next time’, with the sorrow of passing through a valley that we had never even considered.

My body is wacked out with hormones, my boobs have gone from half-oranges to grapefruits in the past month, I’m moody, bitchy, sad and silly with confusion. Poor Manboy, I hardly want him to touch me. I feel guilty, I feel I have betrayed him. I feel my body has betrayed me.

Thank you for the comments, and the interest. I am so grateful for the invisibility of being able to be seen in at least one place. Really, don’t worry, I am not going to jump off of any bridge dressed up in a Santa suit. This is not one of those posts  where Blogger X is reaching out from somewhere inside a deep dark hole, confessing his/her subtle loss of insanity in a world that does not understand. This is not that post. This is not an attempt to get warm fuzzy emails of intervention and concern.

This is just a girl, well, a woman, getting all dolled up for Christmas Eve dinner and needing to let it out somewhere so she can get on with it and party down. This is her ‘letting it out’, so she can go on smile like a faker, eat raw oysters, and drink way more champagne than she should in front of the prudish in-laws. This is the girl who is bummed out of her mind, but consoles herself in the fact that she can dress up her little white dog in his ‘Chritsmas sweater’, which she made out of a black sock with teeny white skulls on it.

Merry Christmas to all of you, I hope it is a wonderful one for each and every one of you, and that Santa of whoever brings your heart’s desire. And by the way, I really do heart you, internet.