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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


2005-08-04 ... 10:09 p.m.

THE JUNKIE'S DILEMMA

The over-the-counter Claritin works fine in the daytime, but cannot be taken at night unless I want to lay there in bed unsleeping and staring at nothing like a flounder.* Benadryl doesn't really do shit for my permanently stuffed-up allergic nose, but it does knock me out, so that I no longer care about being unable to breathe properly. And sweet oblivion is my only goal! When I have fears that I may cease to be---WHO CARES! SHUT YOUR TRAP, KEATS! As long as we get some decent sleep!

(And speaking of:

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
MAKING ME SNEEZE LIKE A MOFO)

(Sorry. Between my un-air-conditioned house and my raging histamines, I'm feeling a little sleep-deprived, brittle, and skittery. Skittlely! I feel like a brittle Skittle! I am one of many, here in this bag, which was unfortunately left open after you got it from the vending machine and only ate half, why didn't you close the bag up with a binder clip? You bastard! Hurry up and taste the fucking rainbow, before it goes entirely stale!)

Anyway, on one, yoga-fied, clean-living level of my brain I am starting to worry that I seem to be popping Benadryl nightly in order to become unconscious and thus cope (in a roundabout way) with my allergies. I mean, isn't this the classic story of hillbilly heroin? Joe the shift-worker gets an Oxycontin 'scrip to deal with his back injury, and next thing you know he's taking them just to get up in the morning. On the bigger, more rational part of my brain I know how hilariously lame it is to even begin to angst about a BENADRYL habit. Soon enough it will be winter and all the stupid leaves will die, and I can get back to abusing alcohol like I was born to do.

*I almost forgot the footnote! There is a bar in Chicago called Flounder's, and I have never been there although I do go past it sometimes on the way to a friend's house. LT and I always postulate that it is named Flounder's because you can get so drunk there that your eyes end up on the same side of your head, and then you fall on the floor and blend into the linoleum, patiently waiting for your prey (perhaps the cream-cheese-stuffed jalapeno poppers, with ranch dressing)?** to wander by.

**This is why people hate America.

PEOPLE SUCK

Maybe everyone else in Chicago has allergies too, because I sure have gotten a lot of touchy snappiness from strangers lately. The other morning I sneezed on the train, and a sleeping guy woke up, turned around, and glared at me. And I sneezed very decorously into a kleenex, so it's not like he got sprayed or anything. Well I do beg your pardon sir! I didnít realize you needed absolute peace and quiet for your El train slumber!

And then yesterday I was waiting for the self-checkout at Jewel, and it is kind of anarchic there---Jewel-shopper society has not quite used its hive mind to decide whether we are going to make two distinct lines, one behind each set of self-checkout machines, or just form one line and use the "whoever's next" system. The latter mode was in play, and I was standing behind a man who was kind of off to the side, staring into space, when a self-checkout opened up. He made no move toward it, so I gestured to him and to it, awkwardly, and a few beats later when he was still blankly staring I stepped forward and started for the self-checkout myself. THEN all of a sudden he snaps to attention with, "HEY! EXCUSE ME!"

"Sorry, go ahead," I say.
He is still standing there, and now he has an aura of Righteous Indignation coming off of him like body odor. He continues, "There is just ONE LINE. I believe I WAS NEXT."
"Please, go ahead," I say. Again. "I just thought..."
"DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM?" he asks. "THAT LADY JUST STEPPED AWAY A HALF-SECOND AGO. GOD."

So I stabbed him in the eye with the corner of my Amy's Soy Cheese Pizza In A Pocket Sandwich box. Why must there be so much ugliness in the world? Why can't there be more tolerance, more civility, and more bleeding eyeballs for the people who think that the world must be out to get them, who sense disrespect lurking around every corner, and who always choose to preempt the merest hint of Being Wronged with a histrionic freak-out?

BUT MONKEY BEASTS DO NOT SUCK

Warn the suburbs! Monkey beast! The use of the word "taunts" is the best, although in my opinion it is unnecessarily pejorative of the monkey beast. He's not some serial killer leaving cryptic notes to the cops! He's a monkey beast! Maybe he's just shy!

I hope, oh how I hope, that the monkey beast story evolves into something like the Monkey Man story from India, and that Elgin's monkey beast gets super-powers, frightens panicked villagers to death, and so on. That sort of myth shift is inevitable, right? Any cultural narratologists in the house?

AND NORA CONTINUES TO ROCK THE HOUSE

The 2.5-year-old imagination not only does not quit, it never even takes a leave of absence. Nora spent most of last night being an accordion. She stretched up and down and made noises, and I had to play the keys on her belly. This was adorable for a while, but decidedly less so when I had to do practical things like offer her a selection of dinnertime foods: instead of an expression of preference I just heard melodious wheezing noises, which would stop only so that Nora could admonish, "Mommy! I am an accordion!" Meaning, "Give it up and plunk some food down in front of me, because you're not winning this one." Or at least that's what I took it to mean. I couldn't even ascertain if she was a Cajun accordion, a polka accordion, or what, which could have helped set the menu.

---mimi smartypants was honorably discharged.

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