A friend passed away Friday after a lifetime of pain, suffering from a disease so rare it makes progeria look like an epidemic.
And it’s one of those times where I waver back and forth between being happy she is no longer hurting, and being sad she’s gone, and being pissed off at a God who would trap such a loving, beautiful, happy soul in a damaged and twisted body. Then I’d remember that she’s probably getting these answers from God Himself her own self right now, and she’s the one that He really needs to answer to, and I’ll know later, but right now I’m just here dealing with this cold, sad world.
I don’t deal with grief very well. I’m missing two entire months in 2002 after a grief-inducing event. That’s why I’m not allowed to drink vodka any more, and no more than two beers or glasses of wine.
I’ve found that, when I can’t get stupid-drunk and escape my grief, my next urge is to bake like a madwoman. Baking is the ultimate control freak-out; as exacting as chemistry and just as predictable. Creating order out of the chaotic ingredients. It’s something that I can control– even in moments when everything else in my life is uncontrollable.
And then it leads to my housemates literally sitting on me at 9pm last night.
“But it won’t take long! I promise!”
“No, Mary Sue! We have too many cookies and breads!”
“Just one cake, then I’ll stop!”
In other news, Cardinal Sean of Boston is adorable. And his latest post touches on two subjects that interest me, Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe, and fumies. I suggest reading the whole thing, even though it’s super-long.