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March 14, 2015 @ 5:49 a.m.
The point is, I've never felt more like myself

       Oh my freaking a, I can't sleep! What is it about winter-almost-spring that has me awake at odd hours of the night? I think the only other night owl in the family is Arlene. Athan is all morning bright-eyes, Mary Lou is all chicken going to sleep with the sun. Aline has shown promise by spending vacation all-nighters watching cheesy lifetime movies on Netflix. But who cares, that's not the point. The point is midnight comes and all I want to do is bake. Or, like two nights ago, make strawberry jam. Because it's strawberry season and I love strawberries and I had five pints. No reason to why I had so many. Athan doesn't like them and Mary Lou only eats them in liquid form. Sometimes I have them with some cool whip, sometimes in smoothies, but most of the time I eat them alone. I crave them cold and alone. Could be the weather; while everybody else has been dealing with snowstorms, Florida is warm and sunny and steeped in strawberries. Point is, I love the tartness and anything else makes them too sweet. I.e. chocolate fondue-- which was tried and failed because who knew there are different types of fondue kits. In fact, so many of my midnight baking/cooking/energy surges have ended in failure that when I suggested a made from scratch birthday cake, I was pointed to the bakery and told to choose the fanciest one and bluntly reminded she was paying for it. Cheap, however, is not the point of made from scratch. It's the flour and eggs and butter and whatever else goes into cake. But yesterday, oh ye of little faith, I made bread and it came out like real bread! Crispy and soft and airy. Not a dense mass that can probably sustain life during an emergency. Or apocalypse.

       Actually, none of that is the point. I've been reading but had not visited my own space since Diaryland went kaput; had not noticed all the errors on my entries. I guess I've just been hibernating like a bear. A pink bear because raspberry kamikaze is not purple and I've been thirty for ten days and my hair is pink.
       And I can breathe.
       I look at myself in the mirror and I'm all zen, all accepting, and I can breathe.
       Now, don't get me wrong, I'm still a mess. Still fucking chaos personified. And I'm not saying I know where I'm going. I'm just saying I'm no longer afraid of not knowing and that's the best feeling of all.

baking powder, perhaps?...

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