Tuesday, January 21, 2003

. . . when one wakes up in the morning and cannot move one's head because the upper part of one's spine has clenched up into an immobile column of pain. One sticks a heating pad on the whole mess to try and make it go away, but a certain Siamese cat who's a sucker for heat keeps clambering on top of one's shoulder and attempting to lie down on the back of one's neck so as to soak up all the benefits of the heating pad for herself, and the weight of Her Royal Plumpness attempting to sit on the back one one's neck only seems to exacerbate one's discomfort. One imagines that perhaps there has been a loss of Synovial Fluid somewhere along the way, or perhaps the Synovial Fluid has been contaminated and transmogrified into some sort of unsavory Drano-type substance, or maybe there are ants in the Synovial Fluid. Mostly, though, one just wants to say the word synovial again and again.

This unpleasantness is further enhanced by the fact that the epizootics from which one was suffering throughout the entirety of the past week-and-a-half and from which one seemed to have finally recovered have made a surprise reappearance. Namely the mucous. And not just any mucous, but the B-Movie Alien Body-Snatching Mucous that propagates at the speed of light in scary, snot-waddy, suffocating clusters of a freakishly thick and stubborn consistency.

It is only natural and inevitable, then, that one might subsequently become somewhat fixated on the fact that one is the only single, non-student dyke in town, effectively meaning that the likelihood of being in the position of exploring a meaningful relationship with someone . . . or even getting to go out on a date for fuck's sake . . . is about as ludicrous as that outfit that Lara Flynn Boyle wore to the Golden Globes the other night. This slippery slope of self pity soon leads to lugubrious and somber meditations on the Bloodcurdling Debacles that, in fact, constituted one's last two dating experiences. I mean, really. Who on earth gets stuck with two pathologically and psychotically co-dependent Stalker Types in a row? Granted, one was a Meat-Space Stalker while the other was more of a Cyber Stalker. But what's the diff? Whether it's a matter of having someone yelling on your sidewalk, pounding on your door, or attempting to force their way into your house in the middle of the night vs. having someone leaving repeated messages on your voice-mail of the you fucked me over variety (because one went on a couple of dates, saw that it wasn't going to work out and decided to nip it in the bud?), sending relentless barrages of e-mails every day vacillating from threatening suicide/self-harm to chirping "lets just kiss and make up" until one was forced to change her e-mail addy, as well as sending creepy and embarrassing e-mails to one's friends, colleagues, and undergraduate assistants at the literary magazine one edits . . . well, it still blows. It's kind of like comparing Putrid Eggs with Putrid Potatoes. Admittedly, it's been awhile, and one is still waiting to be able to see the humorous side of things here, but it all still really feels more awful than funny.

And now it is appallingly late, and one has to get up at the butt-crack of dawn because there are early-morning office hours to make (what was one thinking?) and mounds of class prep to get done in order to avoid looking like an Unspeakable Moron in front of one's classes. And not only that, one will have subsequently realized that one went and posted this self-indulgent whingy blog post that mewled and whinged and mewled some more, and just went on and on and on, ad nauseum . . .
Posted by Artichoke Heart | 1:49 AM |
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Books by Artichoke Heart
Beyond Heart Mountain
Year of the Snake

Poems by Artichoke Heart
Songs for a Rainy Season
Toothpick Warriors
Snake Wife
Happy Hour
Girl With A Bowl On Her Head

Pillow Book Courtiers Of The
East Wing
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Pillow Book Courtiers Of The
West Wing
Blogroll Me!

Acknowledgments and Buttons

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