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the latest
waddle: good morning, wordpress - 10:36 a.m. , 2009-07-03 elaborate murder attempt - 2:56 p.m. , 2009-07-01 building a tractor in the basement - 10:42 a.m. , 2009-06-19 ask no questions tell just a few lies - 3:17 p.m. , 2009-06-09 my long lasting flavor really lasts long - 1:10 p.m. , 2009-06-04
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WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE My brain feels like a plate of hummus. There is even a little depression in the center of my brain that contains a shallow pool of olive oil and a sprinkling of pine nuts. Beige paste, beige paste, everything is beige paste. Some things have happened since I wrote here last, and a good girl would carefully weave them into a skillful web of chronological plot, but that would perpetuate your incorrect assumption that life is like that, where things happen and then other things happen beep beep beep, all in order and all tidied up and put away before the next thing happens. You really have to get over that idea. Life is not like that at all. Life is like an explosion in a hummus factory, one big blort and there is beige paste everywhere. How to begin to clean it up? With short, manageable paragraphs. a. I had a birthday. I love my birthday. It is a defiant little holiday: HA HA I AM HERE. TAKE THAT, SUCKERS. The night before my birthday I went out for massive amounts of sushi with friends. On my birthday itself I made LT measure me but it seems I am the same damn shrimp I always was. It would be cool if you grew every single year on your birthday. Or maybe people should start to shrink at a certain point in their lives instead, and get gradually smaller and smaller until death. Then you could keep Grandma in a jar (don't forget to poke some holes in the lid!) and when she disappeared, you would know that she had died. Solves the nursing home issue but the potential for elder abuse goes way up. Hmmm. Anyway. Thanks to everyone who sent birthday wishes---I spent the day eating really good food and being showered with gifts and attention. LT gave me purple silk pajamas that make me feel like a silent-movie starlet, and good use was made of them on New Year's Day as I lounged around the house in starlet fashion. Silently. b. Speaking of the new year, did you have a nice time? We had a party. With too much liquor. There are large swatches of the party that are just dark nubbly blurs to me, but I think I had a good time, and paid for it dearly. Hangover-induced anxiety, for me, always includes a component of fear, shame, and regret, and the day after a party I am always afraid that I did something ridiculous the night before and all the party guests are secretly laughing at me, or that everyone hates me, etc etc infinite nauseating regression. If you were there and are indeed aware of any bad behavior on my part, please keep it to yourself because I am a little fragile right now. How bad is it? It is so bad that actual tears started to flow when I had to re-do a spreadsheet today. Yeah. c. New Year's Day was spent sitting around drinking beer with friends and watching the World's Strongest Man marathon. Even after all that, and even after the fun and games previously, I still experienced the worst insomnia of my life that night. Woke up at two in the morning and nothing worked after that. Sometimes changing the venue helps me, so I tried both couches, my purple chair, and even the bathroom floor as possible sleeping places but only managed a few minor minutes of dozing, which happened, oddly enough, on the bathroom floor. Something inherently soothing about tile? d. I learned that llamas, unlike horses and camels, cannot poop while walking. Llamas have to pause to poop. e. I dropped a box of strike-anywhere matches on the floor (which made me giggle a bit because the box said "DO NOT DROP," and as they scattered all over the place I yelled "one hundred and fifty-five!" like Dustin Hoffman in Rainman but that was totally wrong. I counted them as I put them back in the box and there were only ninety-seven. Damn. f. This morning, I walked outside into total darkness and freezing cold to go to work, feeling all tweaky and sickly and unsleeping and sorry for myself. This is my first day at work in like two weeks, and it was the first time I had left the house since before New Year's, and when you stay in for over forty-eight hours going out becomes this exercise in overstimulation, sort of an autistic nerves-on-the-outside feeling. Traffic noise seemed really loud and the air kind of hurt my skin. Then I get on the El and some guy flings mustard on me. He got on at Bryn Mawr and sat down next to me, kind of a shady-looking dude in an Army jacket and smelling like beer, and he is carrying a greasy paper bag, and he proceeds to eat a hot dog. A hot dog. At seven-thirty in the morning. He has one of those little mustard packets and he is shaking it and shaking it, but he didn't realize it was open already and he flings mustard on me. "Oh man I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry" he keeps saying and he is trying to sort of dab at my leg with a napkin and I am just thinking AAHHH DON'T TOUCH ME JUST FORGET ABOUT IT AND PLEASE STOP TALKING. EAT YOUR DAMN HOT DOG AND LET ME GET BACK TO STARING OUT THE WINDOW. A COLLECTION OF SNIPPETS THAT ULTIMATELY WENT NOWHERE 1. Charles Humpenstein humped his first stein at age seven. It was a pewter beer stein, not the friendliest object for prepubescent frottage, but it was the only thing of sufficient lumpiness he could find in his mother's white-on-white Eurostyle living room. He humped his next Stein, Rachel Stein, almost exactly ten years later, in a parked car on a dead-end street. Rachel seemed vaguely alarmed by his urgency and whimperings, but she was a very good sport about the whole thing, even letting Charles put his hand under her skirt for a few wonderful, moist moments. 2. Fuck them, those who taste words like passion, like grief, who jump off cliffs, eat strange pills. With all this bitching, my beer has gotten warm. 3. On days when on days when I on days when I can't get out of bed. "What day is it? What time?" I ask and the sheets hanging on the line offer a clean-laundry sort of response: We don't know but we're going to flutter and snap in the wind and act smug about it. 4. The trees stuttered all night long. Black dogs, worn thin, waited for trains. Commas lay scattered on the grass, to be gathered up for soup. Careful! Not so many. The wax will spoil fastidiously. And the snow that year rose, rose-colored, almost to our mouths. Ah, this online journal thing is for the birds. Let's move on, beyond silly little words and sentences. Let's begin to communicate only in streams of lightning-speed images interspersed with product names and logos and explosion noises and stills from the old Incredible Hulk TV show. And hyperlinks. Don't forget those. LIKE THESE FOR INSTANCE Simpsons Pulp Fiction drawings. Talking machines. You're the bone machine.
Another pee-related page. I sure talk about peeing a lot. How did I know Belgium would somehow be involved? This would either be amazing or bizarre. Someone try it and let me know. ---mimi smartypants befriends the friendless. back/forward |
