dryness, or, letting go.

My second night in Reus, I dreamed about my world falling apart: my neglected rabbit losing all his fur, my brother unable to defend himself against his angry landlord, a fight with my mom that ended with her having a heart attack. Classic stuff for a codependent who defines herself by how useful she is to others, even if only in her mind. In case you wondered, my mom, brother and pet rabbit are somehow managing to keep it together.

A day later I regained my equilibrium and, since then, haven’t felt much of anything, joy or sorrow, anxiety or excitement.

That is why my blogs have sucked so profoundly this past week. I ain’t feeling anything. Hopefully no one’s actually reading them. If anyone is out there suffering, I truly apologize. During my earnest conversation with Fate, as I learn how to go with the proverbial flow, my personality has disappeared. “Personality” meaning “worried, anxious and determined to be miserable.”

Won’t it be fun to see what butterfly emerges from this chrysalis?

In the interests of giving all emotions their voice, here’s what I miss.

I don’t just miss my family and friends. I miss being able to visit them without crossing international borders and one ocean. I miss being able to call them from my cell phone. I miss hearing the same things on the radio that they do. But more globally, I miss a culture that understands me. Ironically, the woman who felt she had nothing in common with most people she met now feels akin to her entire country.

I may complain about Walmart culture and the SUVs that are its evil minions, but we all know I won’t survive forever without Twinkies and Daughtry. I miss the acceptance of food that comes in boxes. I miss not being the fattest person in the room. I miss men who weigh more than I do.

I miss mini marts more than you can ever imagine, especially the one my brother and I frequented when we lived in Brooklyn. It sold Russian beer, a variety of cigars, cat litter that Harley hated, and baked goods in shrink wrap. Best of all, the clerk felt bad that he didn’t speak my language. Shopping as a minority loses its novelty really quickly, and I am so hypersensitive, I imagine the clerks are everything from disdainful to downright hateful. In reality they’re probably just grossed out by my glistening face.

I miss English language radio and TV. I miss an abundance of movie theaters.

I miss the luxury of mocking Walmart culture without having to adopt someone else’s.

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