post script

It's brown, and has an anthropomorphized positron and electron holding hands on the front. Its twin hangs in another closet thirty-two hundred miles from here. These days it is far too big and hangs off my frame like a sheet, but it is also made from the softest cotton known to mankind. It is the only external comfort I've found today.


pyjamas of doom

I am standing in front of my closet, trying to pick out which shirt I will wear to go euthanize my cat. And I can't decide, because this is an absurd decision to have to make. Why would the universe force me into such a ridiculous situation? Why can't there be a clean shirt neatly folded on my bed already, so that my brain doesn't have to acknowledge forever more that this is the shirt I chose on This Day to do This Unpleasantness. Why do I have to make ANY more decisions today after the one I've already made?

Why is the universe forcing me to choose a shirt?

 This whole day is absurd.