Sometimes there are those days where I soak in my own melancholy by losing myself in my fears, and my regrets, and my burdens, and my doubts. I feed that melancholy with terribly depressing music, burying myself up to my neck in self-centered bullshit until all I want to do is sit in a stupor, repeating my failures and fears of failure until someone wakes me up.

There’s always a Rilo Kiley song for that, though, and that’s why I adore them.

It’s only doubts that we’re counting on fingers broken long ago. I read with every broken heart we should become more adventurous. And if you banish me from your profits, and if I get banished from the kingdom up above, I’d sacrifice money and heaven all for love. Let me me loved.

And if my brain quits, well I guess that that’s just it. And if my hands stop working you can call me lazy. And if I get pregnant, I guess I’ll just have the baby. Let it be loved, let me be loved.

I’ve been trying to nod my head, but it’s like I’ve got a broken neck. Wanting to say “I will” as my last testament. For me to be saved and you to be brave we don’t have to walk down that aisle, because if marriage ain’t enough, well, at least we’ll be loved.

I felt the wind on my cheek coming down from the east and I thought about how we are all as numerous as leaves on trees. And maybe ours is the cause of all mankind: give love, make more, try to stay alive.

They always manage to pull me out of a slump, that’s for damn sure. But why the hell have I fallen into one to begin with? I mean, really?

Maybe it’s the fact that I leave in a mere 43 days, or maybe it’s the fact that I’m constantly feeling underprepared and behind on getting ready to go. Or it could be that I feel my time before I leave is utterly wasted alone here in this tiny town, and it should be spent with friends and family north and south. Maybe it’s the anxiety of having to ask for something that should be easy enough to get.

Or, it could be that my washing machine has destroyed $200 worth of clothing, including a few (new) favorite shirts, my boyfriend’s shirt, two pairs of sweats, and 90% of my good panties. And the panties is the worst of it — I’m very particular about underwear, and to have all of my cute, lacy, and cotton undies be absolutely destroyed by a merciless machine that’s torn holes into the crotches of ALL of them is a travesty. Mostly because I can’t afford to replace them, so I’m sitting here in my 6 for $10 Costco panties that aren’t nearly as terrible as I’m making them out to be.

And it could be all of those above when paired with that lovely menstrual cycle we’re all so familiar with.

In any case, let me be loved.