lindsayliveshere.org

Cracking the crust

Finally some peace.

It took five weeks. Finally. I’m relaxed. I definitely still have anxious thoughts, and my mind still cycles through possible futures at an alarming rate. But I’m not constantly feeling chased, or like I’m missing something or falling behind in a race. And I can’t even put my finger on what finally did it. It may have been the $3 margaritas at Chili’s, or the loose and playful show on Friday, or the road trip to the world’s first McDonalds. It may have been walking in the rain, or seranading Jeff with “Stay” on a busy downtown sidewalk. Maybe it was cheesecake at midnight, or brunch with Amanda (I cried; I’d missed her). Maybe it’s right now, alone in my kitchen with a beer, a pint of brownie ice cream and a cheap frozen pizza.

45 minutes later: Am I drunk? I have had ONE beer. Regardless, this revelation appeared as if from the gods as I cut my pizza, now baked at a perfect 400 degrees, into slices. If you cut the pizza with a knife like you’d cut a sandwich, saw saw saw, into the pizza, you will get very little result. You will get crumbs, you will get heartache, you will get a slasher pizza, the one that Freddy Kreuger made for you. If you first CRACK THE CRUST with the knife and go IN instead of slash slash slash to the crust, you get a slice looking like you wanted it. SO. I propose that this is a metaphor for life. And that somehow, I need to crack the crust of this thing. Because damn. I should not have to work so hard for my damn slice. I am constantly battling, and there must be an easier way.