Sentimental Shitbag

I boiled water, dear reader, and then forgot about it. Now, much like me, it is hot and waiting. 

I refuse to go get it, partially because I’d almost always rather coffee than tea, and partially because I cannot be fucked to get up.

In order to make my stillness justified, I will write a bit. I will not reheat the water. It’s quickly becoming the principle of the thing, which is a phrase I hate, but must use in extreme cases like this. 

The word “pragmatic” has a similar bite. It’s only ever been used at me, as an excuse to speak over, laugh at, or ignore me completely. I am, in fact, aware that I speak with romantic enthusiasm. I’m not even a little sorry about it. 

I am a sentimental shitbag.

In fact, there are ashes on the floor where I burned a math problem earlier today–I can see them from here. It was a very old page from a very old journal.  I had drawn an equilateral triangle with two circles and no ruler. It was a proof really. Not a problem. 

It was a small accomplishment of which, at the time, I was moderately proud. But more than a tiny win for a younger Allison, the space it took up marked further descent into my seemingly unending love for Not Letting Things Go. 

I’m a deeply sentimental individual. I’m a writer for Fuck Sake–a POET–and keeping stuff that’s painful is kinda my schtik. Keeping stuff that’s painful is also, kinda my problem. 

The origin of The Math Problem in Question is not a story worth telling, but know that its pseudo-sacrificial burning was a long time coming. And also, mostly an accident. There was a candle, whatever. 

I don’t want to hold on to stuff I don’t need anymore. I’m so fucking tired of it. I sincerely don’t have the space, but more than this, the past is actively hurting me. It hurts me to live in the present, sure–who the fuck is thriving right now–but living in the past hurts and hinders any possibility of change.

I burned the shit. I feel only slightly better. 

 I think though, that maybe I have enough intention to let more shit go now.

Dear reader, I hope you can do the same.

I think it’s time, don’t you?