I am breaking all no-delete typing records today because when you don’t write in your diary in a while, but you want to, but you don’t, but you do—sometimes that can make a lady rather crazy with OH NO WHAT DO I WRITE. The only thing to do then is just go BLARRRRRRGGGG and type up some shit. Trying to gently craft that impulse into something lovely will never ever work, at least not if you’re me. Lovely can wait.
Documentary: Rich Hill
Books: California, by Edan Lepucki
Afterparty, by Daryl Gregory
Friendswood, by Rene Steinke
Birds: the burrowing owl
Kids: this one, who spoke to me at great length recently about what if all objects reproduced sexually, so if (for instance) you wanted a new toothbrush you had to find two sexually mature toothbrushes and get them to mate. The implications of this world were really rather horrifying.
DEALING WITH MY CAT
Rocko has been especially troubled lately, the gabapentin really only keeping his twitches and anxiety down to a dull roar, and one of my very literary coping mechanisms is to think of him as a Victorian madman. It all fits: he needs drugs for his nerves, he paces, he shakes, he has dread. He needs to be with people and yet he hates people, and only a select few are allowed to touch him. He self-harms, he simultaneously thinks he’s the king of the world and a lowly piece of shit, and if he had been a fictional Russian in 1866 I can easily see him killing his landlady and then trembling and fainting all over town. Oh Mr. Rocko, you are the most complicated cat.
HAVE YOU DINED WITH US BEFORE
I like to picture snakes going to restaurants. It just makes me really happy for some reason and helps me fall asleep. Snakes wouldn’t need silverware but they also couldn’t point to things on the menu (which comes in handy when a restaurant has used a stupid name for an entree and you just don’t feel like buying into that). Snakes might want to curl up around the table’s votive candle because ahhhh nice and warm.
I imagine the busboy coming by to take a plate when a snake is dislocating its jaws around a whole roast chicken. “Are you finished, ma’am? Oh, I’ll come back later, no problem.” And the waiter: “How was everything?” But the snake does not answer. Call the snake a cab, it ate too much and now it can’t get home on its own.
THE NEWS CAN GO FUCK ITSELF
It seems like the new thing in online news headlines is telling you why you should care. “200 Nigerian Schoolgirls Kidnapped! Here’s Why It Matters.” Here’s why it MATTERS? That makes my head all rage-explodey. Maybe I should go back to thinking about restaurants for snakes.
—mimi smartypants, half-price wine on snake nights.