my sick guilt is so unwelcome, I'm so unwelcome

I sometimes have these moments (usually when I'm wearing a great deal of red, TaylorSwiftian lipstick)  where I re-imagine myself as a cool, complex, composed woman in such vivid detail that I almost believe it. But then I have other moments of spacing out while waiting for the sink to fill with soapy water, wearing blue boy's karate pants, thinking about sliced cheese and dragons and Taylor Swift. And then I'm like aw, man, probably not.

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I've felt a little manic this week, sort of a little in trouble. I don't know what I did, but now it seems I'm doing everything wrong and hapless and clumsy and stupid. I hate it when I get like this, and I thought I'd grown out of it.

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It's very lovely these days with the fields all in a state of utter desolation--all browns and greys and cream. It's such clean, cold beauty.  The cattle have been let into the fields of broken corn stalks to clean up what's left of the harvest, and golly, you couldn't mistake their happiness in their shaggy winter coats.

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I am looking forward to the next phase of winter, though--the phase where it ends. I'm really in the mood to write long, unfortunate blog posts.

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Last night I discovered myself to have terribly small wrists--perhaps even what one would consider "freakishly" small.  I don't wear bracelets or wristwatches, so  I never really thought of it. What's the point of even making armor for such small wrists?