All day, up and down. Absurdly so. It's windy and each gust changes my perspective. These days I'm terrific and then I'm so ridiculously, despondently unterrific. I ask you.
I wake up to construction: Misery.
But it's early enough that I can take a shower and still be to The Glamourous Freelance Job on time: Jubilation.
I eat a banana and drink coffee with Splenda not Sweet 'n' Low because I have finally faced facts: my beloved S&L is indeed Chernobyl in a tiny pink envelope, as well as a "slow exit" food, and is quite possibly the nastiest packet of grossitude on the planet that's been killing me softly for decades: Enlightened.
I manage to dry my new haircut into a feathered helmet when I was going for Mary Tyler Moore: Despair.
It's freezing out. Like really, really not at all summer: Bereft.
I stop at the newsstand and buy a New York Post, where there's a three-page feature that not only mentions me and my book, but has a picture of the book: Elation.
The article has me quoted as saying Kristin Davis is "very hippy," which I swear I never said, or at least I never meant to say, because come on: Self-loathing.
The Glamourous Freelance Job turns out to be vaguely Unglamourous: Mildly dysthymic.
I eat lunch of salad with dressing I made myself and name of dressing is "Liquid Gold": Comforted.
Liquid Gold turns out to be not nearly as tasty as name: Disappointed.
Day drags on, ratio of number of social emails received (tiny) to desire to communicate with outside world (massive) becomes clear: Nausea.
I get an email asking me to contribute a piece to a magazine I admire: Delight, Quickly Followed By Terror at Actually Having to Write Article.
It gets dark: Depressed.
I buy new mascara in attempt to lift spirits with trip to Sephora: Emptiness.
I attempt while in line at Sephora to hold my place in line while simulateneously reeeeeeaching for every coconut-scented Philosophy product in effort to find something frivolous worthy of an impulse buy and nearly fall over/lose my place on line: Humiliation.
Every product I pick up is a bubble bath. I am reminded that my bathtub is so small Webster could not bathe in it: Webster!
On my way out of Sephora, I douse myself in Thierry Mugler "Angel" perfume: Millisecond of Joy.
On subway, people sniff and move away from me, presumably because I am giving them a headache from my Angel dousing: Abandonment.
I give myself a headache from Angel dousing: Oh fuck it.
I see two people on the train reading the article I'm in in The Post: Secret Thrill.
Et cetera. You see. I suppose this is a normal day. This is the sort of soaring/plummeting that normal people experience. It's also kind of boring when recounted. I would like to be less susceptible to the tiny ripples of the universe, changing instead with the larger tides. Or maybe actually affecting the tides. I'd like to be the moon.