Sometimes I want to be an industrious woman who has an herb garden. I want to set tables beautifully in that mismatched effortless European way, complete with wonky flower arrangements. I don't have anyone to do this for. I will never have a house of my own. I hate it when people cook with rings on. It's disgusting.
Now I've found Delia Smith, and I'm thoroughly enjoying her programs from the '90s, which have that distinct hazy quality of old television. High definition is comfortless. I'm going to die young. I'm probably going to die young.
She's making what she calls a "luxury fish pie." Imagine coming home from a summer dinner party where luxury fish pie was served with cold white wine and fruit. You're in the car, full, tipsy, and sleepy, listening to faraway-sounding music that you can't recognize. Then you collapse in bed, unwashed and naked. You wake up the next afternoon, wondering how you could possibly carry on. The fucking drama.
I need to get rid of all my stuff. I don't have much, but I have to be rid of the little I have for further simplification.
I have many fantasies about running away from a home I could have. I don't understand why running away appeals to me when I know it's so unpleasant. I abhor movement and fending for myself. It's odd how the best way to comfort myself is to think about going away and having only enough money for one sad cup of coffee. I don't even like coffee. It seems like I just want to be scared and lonely somewhere else.