After several weeks of enthusiasm and comparative contentment, you have Palmer’s Really Really Really Bad Day.
You look in the mirror and see a giant white balloon instead of a face. You know mascara would counteract the fatness, but think, why bother? You become more and more convinced each time you duck out of the mirror’s line of sight that professionally-wielded scissors may be your psychological jaws of life. The twins ask for a soft cheese sandwich, you agree to make one as soon as you’ve shoved the house’s entire supply of pepperoni, ham and butter into your giant white balloon of a face. After they ask the fourteenth time you shut the kitchen door on them so that, when they ask the fifteenth time, you don’t hurl one of them out of the patio door into the garden below. You hear their mom come in while you’re ranting to one of them, and think, she’s going to fire you for being an abusive shrew, and you don’t particularly care. You have no energy but do not want to sleep. You eat nearly the entire tin of cakes the kids made the day before, fully aware of not only the horrific hygiene standards in which they were made, but the contribution it will make to your giant white balloon of a face.
And every second, every heartbeat, a single thought repeats its steadying but repressive mantra: Just try to get through the day without causing permanent damage.