Under construction

I'm under construction. Don't try and find me because you won't.

Call it a writer's block, recession, tsunami. Give it some other name besides my own. And if one day you see me on the street, don't pretend to know her either.

An attempt at justifying my not having written anything here for nearly two months. 

Symptom Recital

I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me anymore.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men...
I'm due to fall in love again.

Dorothy Parker, "Symptom Recital"

This poem is me, save the last line. 

I was eating vanilla ice cream, bottomed with frozen m&m's and topped with sliced bananas. Guilty of my gluttonous pleasure (my consumption of the melting solid took place on my bed), I picked up the poetry anthology by my window in hope to garner some sophistication. Instead I found my symptoms listed as if in a medical journal written by Dr. Seuss.

Look at what you've done.