Today I spent several minutes trying to put a shoe on my foot with little success. It was only upon closer inspection I discovered I'd already placed a shoe on that particular foot. A sign of my own inattentiveness? Maybe. I admit, I was distracted. I was momentarily confused. Shoes do not go on top of already shod feet. Do they? No. I'm almost positive they don't.
There's only one reason for this befuddlement.
I was hoping it wouldn't come to this. Praying, really. Begging the gods on my knees for mercy, just this once. A deep baritone wailing, emanating from the dark abyss within me, filled the air. There was much gnashing of diet cola-stained teeth. Locks of product-ridden hair were twisted with nervous, fidgety fingers into tightened knobs all over the top of my head. My trademark glaciel composure began to melt, flooding the house, much like Alice's tears.
Tunnocks Tea Cakes began churning in my stomach like red-hot volacanic lava--burning me from the inside out. I began shaking with chills. Then sweating profusely. Then beating my tiny fists on the cinder block walls. Then stopping for a breather. Then rising up, suddenly refreshed--like Kruschev--extra shoe in hand--ready to crush mine enemy.
And then--just as suddenly--the rage disappeared and I resigned myself to my fate.
Dread.
An overwhelming dread. A weary weltschmerz taken residence in my soul. Really, is there even a soul of which to speak anymore? Has not this feeling of anguish and torment destroyed the ethereal, transparent wisp of a soul once residing inside my fleshy exterior?
Weltschmerz be damned. It must come out. To delay it any further will just draw out the excruciating pain. It's time.
Without a moment's further delay...
Except this one----------> (..............................................)
I give you...
*insert deep sigh*
*insert shoulder roll*
*insert knuckle cracking*
*insert light fingernail chewing*
My Coffee Lady Post.
It's a rare gift when one comes across one's vicious and venomous doppelganger in real life. Even more rare when she is hiding behind the respectable exterior of a professional working mother of two lovely children--and a happily married wife, living in jolly olde England.
My sneaking suspicion of our like-minded dark sense of humor was confirmed when I started receiving these lovely gems in my in-box:
"You don't disappoint in your ability to make my heart sink."
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"What are we, a global magic mirror? Needy? Your beauty is rare and fine my queen. Now we need to work on your self-esteem."
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"Oh, go play with your blasted mushrooms, you loon."
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"Sorry. I didn't realize we had to point out you were insane."
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"Ah. Still bonkers then."
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"I can just imagine you, skulking around the flea market in your hoodie with your gun. Grabbing your crotch and ting."
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"You see, that's just what my Friday needed. Pictures of your roof."
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"Don't come all smart with me, crazy coat-collection lady."
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"And stop stalking me. This island isn't big enough for the both of us."
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"No pictures of your lunch? This post sucks."
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It was only this last comment which suddenly struck an ice-cold dagger of fear into my heart:
"Tell you what's freaky. The littlest Latte has been looking at this over my shoulder (we are both at home ill). She got to the last photo (of yours truly) and said, "Mummy, it's a picture of you."
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It took me months to get over that one. I may still be scarred.
Of course, receiving a box of goodies in the mail from your doppelganger can sometimes do wonders.
Especially when that very same box contains sweets and treats.
And excellent examples of coloring.
Which look startlingly like...
ME.
Thank you, dear Coffee Lady, for everything. But mostly, thank you for being YOU. By which I mean--profoundly rude, passionately cruel and thoroughly sarcastic. You are simply the best.
XX, E
*Another one of CL's classics.
