Right now, it seems, I can do anything but the thing. The thing has become monstrous and impossible: a valley too deep; a mountain too high. I am circling the thing like grubby water around a drain as the thing infects my nervous system like one big niggle. Everything would be absolutely fine… if it weren’t for the thing.
There’s a leak and I should call the roofer. Last week I actually had a bucket under the drip like some Parisian poet with candle wax on his sleeve and syphilis in his blood. Have I got syphilis? Probably not but what about HPV or chlamydia or cancerous cells? See? I romanticise the thing. I catastrophise the thing.
I should call the roofer but I have a deadline and the three minutes it would take me to call the roofer will interfere with my deadline. And that would be bad. BAD. The deadline is for something really un-fun. But at least it isn’t the thing.
I’m a bit shy about calling the roofer. He won’t remember me so I’ll have to do that whole ‘I’m the woman from this street and you fixed my roof in 2014’ which I always find faintly mortifying. And then it occurs to me that if he fixed my roof in 2014 and it is now leaking then maybe he is a bad roofer. And what good is a bad roofer? But where do I find a good roofer? I can’t. There are none. I am an unsuccessful person with no roofer and no ability to fix the thing.
Drip. Drip. Drip. The thing infests my waking hours. Taps on the door of my dreams. Ah, but it’s stopped raining. I can cast the thing aside. Until the next time. Drip. Drip. Drip. Now I return to the default thing: why haven’t I made a will? How hard can it be? Life. Thing after thing after thing. What would it take to clear the desk and live thing-free? Death. That’s what. So that’s the choice. Death or the thing. Great.