SuperSponge is more like it

Passion plays out in mysterious ways, so when you think of me, try not to judge. Instead, try to place Martin Scorcese in the same thought. I heard him say in an interview once that he used to tape tinfoil over his apartment windows so he could watch movies day and night. Now, of course, he’s a successful filmmaker and I’m not, but we’re talking about passion here; not success. And I did take the two layers of blankets off the big living room window when I heard that Torie’s James (aka “Tom”) was coming over. The handtowel is still tacked over the little arched window in the door, though; I didn’t think he’d notice that.

As it turned out, he and Torie snuggled on the loveseat while I took over the main couch and we all watched Buffy until Torie and I fell asleep at 9p, and James went home. Jesse watched the earlier episodes in the other room. I beg you: when you think of us, please try to remember Mr. Scorcese, and have pity.

Then if you’re still in the pity mode, you can toss a little more my way when you hear how my very own mind conspired against me this weekend. I had a headache all day Saturday; I mean a bad one; a coming-up-a-migraine one; which seriously bit into my enjoyment of Buffy, blanketed windows notwithstanding. It wasn’t until Sunday morning that I happened to look at the label on my newish package of Starbucks Verona and discover that I’d inadvertently bought decaf. By that time I figured I’d already gone through the worst of withdrawal and, because I’d been feeling tired and draggy and like crap for quite awhile, I decided to stay off caffeine altogether. So, although I’m still tired and draggy, I feel healthier about it. Which makes no sense, but you’re used to that when you come over here, so that’s okay. It is okay, right?

I feel like I’m sinking. I really miss Scott. I’m forgetting things; I can’t keep up. I cry nearly every day, at least a little. Sometimes I don’t wash my face before I go to bed, and everybody knows what a nono that is. Superwoman I’m not. I can’t even aspire to Supergirl. Which is probably why lately I’m all, “Kick some ass, Buffy, and for the love of God, let Spike love you.”

Don’t worry about me; I’ll be okay. Yesterday I took the kids shopping and we had a great afternoon, and hey, today I got dressed again and plan to do some housework here in a minute! That’s gotta be good for a little hope! Have a great day, friends. kiss xo

Vital addendum: I don’t want to know if Buffy lets Spike love her; I’ll find out eventually. When I’ve sailed my way through season seven to the series’ end, we can talk about it ’til the Undead lurch home. Thank you, sweet things.