Missing, presumed dead

I have a missing parcel problem. It was supposed to arrive today, and it didn't, and I can't get the delivery company to acknowledge the existence of the tracking number I've been given. Or indeed, get the sender of the parcel to respond to me with a correction to what is clearly an incorrect tracking number.

None of this would be any great catastrophe if the parcel didn't contain a rapidly thawing weasel corpse.

I mentioned I'd taken up taxidermy, right? Actually, maybe I didn't

*flashback*

I'm carefully holding the tiny mouse flat. I've been instructed to cut a straight, shallow line down its belly, but the resulting incision looks like it was done with pinking shears. My first thought is "This isn't as gross as I expected". The second is "Oh crap. I'm really not good at this". Somehow I manage to peel the mouse without pulling off anything essential, but when it comes time to sew him back up, there is clearly a problem with the shape of his new, cotton wool body. His skin sags in some places like a sodden droopy nappy, and stretches tight in others like a fat man's waistcoat. I suddenly remember that the last time I stitched an animal was when I sewed my hair to a beanbag frog in home economics.

*flashforward*

The weasel is destined to join the gradually swelling ranks of my taxidermy army as my first chimera; a quail winged, seraphic mustelidae named Weaselangelo. Having named him already, I feel guilty that he is stranded somewhere, on a van or at a sorting office, missing out on his stoatly destiny. I'll feel even worse if I don't manage to recover him. The parcel office keeps packages for 18 days before disposing of them. Can you even begin to imagine the smell?

made up

Well I did it. I went a whole week without make up. I went to work every weekday, and out six evenings out of seven. And yet, I don't feel particularly proud of the achievement.

As expected, I was repeatedly told by acquaintances and colleagues that I looked tired, or looked like shit. I was even called an ugly butch in the street, but then that happened a couple of weeks ago too, when I was wearing make up, and both blokes were clearly nutters, so it doesn't count. My friends, conversely, either didn't notice or thought it suited me.

Nobody else's response bothered me as much as my own. I hated every single second of it. I felt exposed and shy, as though my social skills had regressed about ten years. And I felt ugly. I know that's a terrible thing to say,   but I'm trying to be honest. If I spoke to my friends the way I spoke to myself in the mirror last week, I wouldn't have any left. So why on earth does my brain think it's acceptable to speak to myself that way? Clearly that needs to be addressed at some point, but not right now. For now I'm back behind my mask, where I'm safe from my own cruelty, and I think I'll stay here until things settle down a little.