|
sublingua | |||||
| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
|
The Demon Who Waits for The Blood
Jesus, wasn't that last entry designed to give quite a yin-yang picture of my intelligence level, what with the J.D. Salinger reference being mixed with the misspellings and the whole e.e. cummings pseudo-style what with the neighbor's computer's missing shift key? Gah. I have to apologize for that one. By way of excuses, I should say that I was still catsitting, and being in the neighbor's apartment was kind of stretching the bounds of reality a bit, you know? And apparently that's not much of an excuse, not even a plausibly sensible one, and so now I have to apologize for not even being able to make excuses. This could turn, I think, into something of an endless loop however, and so I'm going to move on if it's all the same to you. And what has little Sublingua been up to? Well, the neighbor is back, and so there haven't been the frequent updatings as I have, once again, limited access to a computer. (I'm here now at Max's office, using company time to ostensibly check my email--something that all these computer geeks thankfully think is direly necessary.) But I have mostly been at play with in-town friends. Two weeks (!) worth of PMS has made me generally unfit for human consumption--I've been feeling quite bitter--but there has been playtime nonetheless. (Though my friends have probably regretted it--or at least Sophistica has, as I called her a bitch at lunch yesterday, or, called her on being a bitch, which is a long story, but suffice to say that I was in the right. Of course. Oh, right.) All day long, I just kept feeling crappy and out-of-sorts and mean. Generally, when in this mood, I should probably be kept away from the other animals, and fed large haunches of meat that have been pushed through the bars of my cage. But instead of this obvious solution, there was lunch at the Olive Garden with Sophi and Mayflower, followed by several hours of shopping. And then there was a long conversation with x, who does that cyber-version of being on the phone with someone while watching television and paying more attention to the television than to the conversation. (They cyber-version being net surfing while on the phone--but at least he was relatively amusing as I very quickly steered him to online lingerie shops and suicidegirls.com.) And through it all, I kept being a bitch and kept being a bitch and I thought that a session at the gym would fix everything, but it didn't. So instead of staying out and socializing some more, Max and I went to the grocery store where we ran into Who's Your Favorite Jimmy and Jennifer? who were shopping for a New Year's Eve party that Max had declined to attend. Because we love the J&J dimer, but hate parties because we are antisocial I suppose. Or at least Max is. And that makes me too by extension. And this is another loop, isn't it? I'm not too adept at linear these days. And so after shopping (yogurt, bread, protein bars, bananas, peanut butter, sugar-free jelly, and applesauce if you must know), I went home and read a lot of Salinger and Borges, hoping that that might snap me out of my funk. And so then there was the Salinger funk layered over my own PMS funk, and that meant a lot of tears over Zooey and Franny and the Jesus Prayer. And there was then the Borges, which at least added some exquisite Spanish layer of funk to the PMS and Salinger funk, and that meant a lot of tears over Buenos Aires' gardens of oblivion. And it just kept going from bad to worse. And I kept waiting and waiting and trying to stave off the sugar cravings and smoking too much and avoiding the calls from friends and crying over literature and wondering if I should just go ahead and puncture the damn womb with an ice pick--only I don't have an ice pick, I'd have to get dressed and go and ice pick one up. And finally. Finally, this afternoon, finally came the blood.
More lies:
|
|||||