May 15, 2007

Let Me (Not) Entertain You

Yesterday was kind of a wash. Notable thought processes:

Brain is sad. Brain is like gummy bowl of Cream of Wheat. Coffee, not helping. Must make sense of workplace, coworkers, stuff on desk. Words on papers probably mean something / are important. Must try hard not to seem drunk.

Carefully… scratch… nose… nails! Fuck! Ow!

I think I need some sugar. Sugar? Shoooo-garrr. Weird.

I’ll have this apple and this banana and cereal and this yogurt and a banana whoops I have one already what? No, I’m fine. Yes, I will have a drink of your juice.

No fat-free milk? How will I eat my cereal? HOW WILL I EAT MY CEREAL?

It was nice of the coffee place to have fat-free milk. No, it’s not stealing, it’s right on the counter. I’m not buying their coffee, their coffee is crap. Whoops! Yes, I can see I spilled, it, thank you. I think I need to eat this right now. I think I need a spoon. I think I need to eat this all right now. Hold the walls up for me, ok?

Man, cereal is really good! I should eat more cereal.

Yes, I’m feeling better. I’m going to go sit down. I will eat the yogurt later. Yes, like, in an hour later. I’m fine. Yes, I have a lunch. Yes, there’s food in it. I’ll be fine.

“I’ve got a lo-ve-ly bunch of junk e-mails, deedlee dee dee…”
No, I wasn’t singing. No, I was just… talking? To myself? Um.

What the? Move. I said, MOVE. Look, I am the BRAIN and you are the ARM and I say MOVE.

I was going to write something. What was it? The thing about… no. Ants? Dishwasher? Yogurt? None of those words means anything. I could do the… no. That’s not even funny. Shit.

OW, my HEAD is IMPLODING. Is it going to rain?

I’m obviously not going to the gym, since I can’t find my legs. I’ll get groceries. And dinner. And lie on the couch with a towel over my head and wait for my brain to dribble out my eyes.

You don’t have grapes? Well that’s AWESOME, because all day I was thinking “I can’t wait to go home and eat grapes because they sound so freaking delicious” and it shouldn’t be hard to, you know, eat GRAPES in the SUMMERTIME but NO you only have sad, wrinkly, fuzzy STINKY produce and this store sucks FINE I’ll just have to go to Whole Foods where I JUST WAS to get ORGANIC GRAPES for $7 A BAG. “Right store” my white Polish ASS.

Mmm, grapes. Yummy. Soy dogs! For dinner! Yay for soy protein! What are you looking at? Oh. Yes, I am munching on... no, I haven’t paid yet—yes, I know I pay by weight… I haven’t eaten the whole bunch yet, don’t be… FINE. Yes, can I have a half pound of this organic vanilla-infused fruit salad to mitigate my grand theft greengrapes? Thank you. I’m sure it will taste like freedom and clean energy and unicorns and not at all like normal fruit salad.

Can’t cook. Can’t eat. TV on, shoes off. Catch me, couch.


What I have learned: If you’re going to run eight miles, drink water, wear sunscreen, and be prepared for total uselessness the following day. My muscles weren’t sore, shockingly, but my blood sugar was in a Dead Sea trough for sixteen hours. Can’t wait for marathon training.

In other news, I have finally finished The Poe Shadow, which was like The da Vinci Code minus the code. I hate reading mystery novels, and don’t care for the crime genre so I realize I may not get it, but do mystery novels usually end without solving the mystery? At all? Because that seems counterintuitive; I’d rather have propped my eyes open with forks for something other than plotless prose, no matter how well it was constructed. Hopefully Stephen Fry will keep me awake (given his critique of the aforementioned DVC, I have nothing but high hopes).

Countdown to vacation: 7 days, 5 hours, 36 minutes.
And feeling every millisecond.

There will be at least one good post before I leave, promise. The entertaining kind, on which I have been lax, for which I am sorry. I offer a recommendation to go read the American Idol recaps until I can be funny again; Jacob’s writing is like being slow-fucked with a rubber chicken, it's that good, and that odd.*

* Ditto the Doctor Who recaps, but more of a 'being willingly beaten over the head with a carriage clock, shielding yourself with a copy of Ulysses as a helmet' sort of good.

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