I like feeling sorry for myself. I get some bizarre form of pleasure out of self-pity or martyrdom. As though if I can wave everyone’s attention over to this one thing I’ve had to overcome and get praise for overcoming it, I’d be happy. I think it’s odd.
It’s not even life and death stuff I’m talking about either. Tonight my suitcase declared itself forever broken. Truth be told, the zipper has been busted for months, but I’ve always managed to get it working before. Not this time. So, I packed for four days in the only other thing I had, a small bag a little bigger than a school backpack. In it are the shoes and outfit for my grandmother’s services on Saturday, socks and underwear, pajamas, toiletries and two long-sleeve t-shirts. I’m actually a little amazed by how much I was able to stuff in it. I will be wearing the same jeans and the same hoodie for the next four days.
When I realized that there was no way I’d be able to take my actual suitcase, it gave me a weird shot of pleasure. I recognized it as irritating and an unnecessary difficulty and it made me happier. I think that’s odd.
Given that it’s 11:04 PM and I have to leave my house for the airport in less than 4 hours, I’m going to put off contemplating it for now. [Wave, wave. Look at me!]