She awoke one fine cupcake morning,
Blue skies and nary a cloud in sight.
Village windows remained shuttered,
Terrific beasts tethered to the night.
It was a fine day indeed.
She had the invitations,
Colloquial and drawn in invisible ink.
Balloons of her favorite shades,
Faded blues and washed out grays,
Floated about the room;
Specters all their own.
Nine thirty and a quarter past second five.
She clasped her hands,
When only a strangers shadow
Fell upon the door.
“Am I late?”
An echo from empty marble halls.
“I do love parties after all.”
She tugged at cotton candy curls
And a dress of a more bland sort.
“Of course, of course.
Just lay your grievances down here.
After all, isn’t that what pity parties are for?”
Between how overwhelmed I’ve been pretty much all year at this point and a looming sense of becoming stuck in the status quo I’ve honestly felt like shit lately. I feel stuck, unimportant, unmotivated, uninspired and so very much like a total failure. I get to points where I wonder if every decision I’ve ever made has been the wrong one. Since I found myself having a pity party … Here we are