sublingua

(Be present.)

(It's past.)

(Go there now.)

Bold As Yo' Mama

Okay, I have no idea what that little heading means. Your own mama may not be so bold. And my mama used to be kind of bold, but has now become a kind of church-sanctioned mouse-like mama. Poor my mama.

Needles In Haystacks And Vice Versa

Okay, so what did Sublingua do this fine morning, you ask. Well, I don't know what she did (because she seems to lead a much more exciting life than I ever will) but I had my first appointment ever with my new therapist, Deb.

Yep. I told Soph the other night that it was that time of year: Boyfriends Or Therapy. Soph claims to be too fat for boyfriends and too busy for therapy. And me? I choose therapy. (Okay, well, I choose a combination of therapy and casual one-night stands, but that sex stuff is just a side thing.) Art therapy. Art therapy? Yeah, I'm a bit cynical about it too. I'm actually a bit cynical about most things, but I've been through therapy, and if there's one thing that therapy does for you, it's cure you of cynicism about therapy. It's a little bit of your very own self-fulfilling prophecy there, I think, right? Right. And you pay someone for the privilege. Of what, you ask? Well, of everything, darling. Of everything.

So, Deb? Deb is probably a dyke. She walks, talks, and acts like a dyke anyway. And that doesn't bother me. I mean, anymore dykes are the only people who have the nerve to talk to me at the gym, so I assume that all the barriers I've spent so much time erecting don't apply to them. That's got to be beneficial therapy-wise, right? I'm assuming it is, and nothing can disavow me of an assumption once I've got a good grip on the damn thing. Deb the Dyke is not especially touchy-feely, which is exactly what I want in a therapist. I usually don't do touchy-feely. I'm really more drawn to the drill sargeant kind of therapist, a "Drop And Give Me Twenty" kind of therapist, someone who'll kick my ass into shape. I mean, I still, even after years and years of therapy, just want to walk into someone's office, drop my bag on the floor, plop myself down on the couch, and say, "Fix me." I mean, I don't want to do the work. Who does? It's hard shit. It takes some digging. I don't have time to pussy-foot around my issues. I just want someone to take a fucking backhoe and go right for the hard stuff that's buried deep. I want a goddamned team of construction workers with jackhammers working on my psyche. I don't want some woman who offers me hot tea and a tissue when I start talking about the hard stuff.

Um. Right.

So Deb? I think she might be okay. I'm going to see her next Thursday and I'm going to take the Big Book Of Demons in for show-and-tell, and we'll see how she responds. And then I'll know, demons. Then I'll know if I have a new weapon in my demon-wrangling arsenal.

Work It Out

So my legs? Are killing me. My right quad is injured and because I'm a fucking maniac who is determined to exercise herself to death and/or exhaustion (whichever comes first), I keep re-injuring it. After several days' rest, I did a moderate lower body workout last night, and it was fine. Where I fucked up was running my dog Cooper this morning. That fucking dog's going to kill me. He seriously ran my ass off. And my right quad is having none of it now. I took some aspirin and have to go get some arnica, which seems to help, but tomorrow? Rest. And the next day? Okay, well, the next day I'll probably do an upper body workout, but I'm definitely not doing a lower body workout, that's for sure.

I'm Still Grateful, Demons. Still Grateful

I am grateful. I am grateful for change. I am grateful for coffee. I am grateful for sushi. I am grateful for Judi. I am grateful for the new phone. I am grateful. I am grateful for my neighbor Angelique the Beauty. I am grateful for my contact lenses. I am grateful for Frida. I am grateful for Sophistica, for x, for Matthew, for Mitch. I am grateful. I am grateful for The Hottie Duo at the Hottie Video Rental Store. I am grateful. I am grateful for Samuel Beckett, who posted this above his desk:

Fail. Fail Again. Fail Better.