Between Fuzzy and Soggy

Cry, cry, cry

Fuzzy.

What the hell?

And soggy. Jesus Christ, what is SOGGY?

I grabbed my iPhone to see what time it was. 4:04am. Fuck my life.

The “fuzzy” turned out to be the sofa and the “soggy” turned out to be a drool-soaked throw pillow. I’d fallen asleep on the couch. And hell fire, I was out of it.

Saturday night was “date night” with myself. This generally translates into Erika + animals + Netflix = Awesome. Nothing I picked up in high school algebra, but a solid equation nonetheless. This past week, I dropped Marley & Me into the DVD player.

HUGE fucking mistake. Colossal.

I’d apparently cried myself to sleep.

Yes, I’m a girl. I cry. I cry at sappy movies. I cry when I laugh too hard. I’m famous for my laughter-induced bawling. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not a sobber, just add stiff breeze. I guess that Saturday night, I just needed to cry.

It’s not pretty. No one’s sexy when they wander into the bathroom and have a gander at their swollen, pinkish mug after they’ve let the tears roll. But I’ll argue that it’s essential.

Perhaps I’d fallen asleep on the sofa to avoid the bedroom. Maybe I hadn’t cried in awhile and needed the release. Whatever the hell brought me round to waking up amidst “fuzzy” and “soggy” on Sunday morning – it was essential.

I don’t know about you, but sometimes I just don’t know what I need. My head’s so far up my ass with the here and now that my needs elude me. I think the Universe is only willing to play along with our bullshit for so long until it issues you a shake-the-baby moment. Need finally ferrets its way out from underneath and then – cry havoc, let slip the dogs of war.

And you’re waking up between fuzzy and soggy.

Funny, though. I didn’t feel bad as the iPhone struck 4:04am. I felt lighter. Buoyant.

Bouncy-bouncy-bouncy-bouncy, fun-fun-fun-fun-fun.

Sunday was brilliant. Monday was even better. It kinda makes me want to cry again. With every tear shed, fifteen pounds of bullshit washed away from my soul. It just reminds me that we don’t really acknowledge how much we’re carrying around until we shed it. It’s the stuff of which yard sales and overweight baggage fees are made. You don’t really need it but you’re hell bent on keeping every ounce with you.

I say – just cry. Catharsis comes in many ways, but off all the options, crying is cheap and effective.

And the sofa’s pretty comfy.