Comfort food and other evils

It is my new theory that what resides in the appendix is not, as had been previously suggested, silent suffering. It is my new theory that what in fact resides in the appendix which I no longer support inside my body is fear. I feel no fear. I do not fear anything. Pain holds no mystery. Love is a sign of universal stupidity. Inaction is what happens in between chores. Death and I have never been at odds. Other people will fuck up their own lives. There is no such thing as perfection and being at peace is just another way of being.

Today is a day of fragile. The vodka cranberry sprite of yesterday evening left me with a dry mouth and slightly wonky head this morning. The beer and wine that preceded set all of it up, of course, but that last drink is what sent the head over the edge and down into the doldrums where I find myself today. Being fragile. Slightly broken. No more than usual.

I will leave the library at the end of the month. There is no need to find myself in a situation where I am very aware of my replaceability. It is a depressing habit of all former 'victims' to persist in reminding the world and therefore themselves that 'I am not a victim anymore!' Bullshit.
Last night I learned of a goddess who lives in books. I remember the sound of her name, though I do not know how to spell it.

When I was a child living in a home where the kitchen was yellow, as all good kitchens are, there was a kitchen witch who hung by the window, keeping her broom at the ready, a kerchief holding back the wiry hair, revealing a hideous nose and one or two teeth and a smile like a cackle on a wrinkled old face. She kept us safe. Baba Yaga of the missing hearth.

The ethnologists who studied the Nacerima believed that this culture worshiped at an altar made like a sink. I wonder of the name of the god or goddess who may have lived there. I can find the meaning and saint or angel or protector or goddess or god or holy person of every room and item in my new home. The new religion is not about understanding and love. The new religion is in the icons that we collect, the stories that we tell about them and the constant conflict that rages in the absence of pan-dimensional understanding when Bast meets Odin and the kittens hide.

I would find a kitchen witch. Mayhap I will craft a new one out of what I have already. All parts accounted for. Some assembly required.