i don’t think of myself as someone who needs taking care of. (someone who wants it, to be sure, but who isn’t that?) and yet here i am, walking into things, misspelling my own name, burning the pasta at two in the morning, and while i’m no competitive chef, honestly, who burns pasta? i’m famous in certain circles (primarily my friends and my cat) for forgetting to sleep and eat, and if it were just that, it wouldn’t be worth mentioning. but at times like these, i forget even to be tired or hungry. carried its illogical end, this is not pretty.
i assure you i can take care of myself, but in practice i only do so as a byproduct of taking care of someone else. i’ll stir the sauce and think, “well, i’m already making dinner; i may as well eat some of it.” but when there’s no one to feed, who can be bothered?
anyway, it’s all good. people go and come. this time tomorrow, i’ll be tucking one in for the night, and am sure to find myself unexpectedly under the covers in the process.