Paranoia

I am afraid to leave the house, for fear I will be the next wreck of the day.  I am afraid to get excited, for fear I will have a stroke.  I mean, if it can happen to people I read every day, people who are so freaking SOLID in my head, I can't help but think that it could happen to me, too.  So what do I do?

I cook.  And then I eat.  And I feed my neighbors.  And strangers.  I took a pot of spaghetti up and dropped it off at the Shingle Mill on Saturday, and yesterday I made a VAT of chicken curry (with the last of my Trinidadian curry, dammit) and a loaf of banana bread.  I think I have eaten my weight in curry, and my ass feels like I slathered it on with a trowel.  I ate one slice of the banana bread, then realized that if I didn't get it out of the houseboat immediately, I would have to end the day with my finger down my throat.  I took two slices to El Juevo, two to the couple who runs the little convenience store down the road, and gave my neighbors the rest.  I also doled out a little of the curry here and there, but I saved most of it to freeze, because I am stingy, and also because I just don't think anyone around here can really appreciate it properly. I mean, it's not deep fried and there is no LARD in it.  *bitch slaps self*  That was not NICE, Jacquelynn.

I can't possibly keep this up.  I have used everything in my freezer except various and sundry Lean Cuisines, Smart Ones, and Healthy Choices, so there is nothing left to cook.  I am almost out of bottled water.  I am tired of bailing out my little boat (the battery that runs my little sump pump is d.e.a.d. dead, so I am having to bail it out by hand twice a day to keep it from sinking from all the rain we've been having) (it's no fun bailing IN THE RAIN) so I need to go get a new battery.  How do I MAKE myself get in the car?

Eleven more days.  Surely I can make it eleven more days.  Ahhh, my kingdom for a xanax.