this little guy sees everything
I had an appointment for a blood test at 7 am. The lab that takes appointments* is driving distance away and I had a vision of driving into a sunrise with a Chemical Brothers-ish soundtrack but there was not much of a sunrise today, just a gradual turning up of the brightness. It was a fasting blood test, which is no big deal at 7 am except that the minute you tell me I cannot eat, I will want to. The phlebotomist was very giggly and jokey and made lots of references to the weekend and how I should enjoy my weekend and sure, I will try, but it’s Thursday.
*There is a closer lab that does not take appointments and you have to get there an hour before it opens and then they still waste your time. No thanks!
On the way home, thinking of breakfast, I drove by the Jewish girls’ high school north of my neighborhood and it seemed like every one of those girls was outside, just a riot of hair bows and long skirts, and they were all working together to load gigantic foam (?) rocks and boulders into a series of minivans double-parked on the street. It looked like it was going to take either more trips or more minivans (but not more girls; plenty of girls). Whither giant fake rocks? What is going on? I hope they are headed to a kaiju-style battle to throw them at each other or at students from a rival school. FRUM BATTLE ACTIVATE.
They measure lots of stuff at an autopsy (weight of organs, etc) but if the corpse has a dick do they measure the dick? I do not see why they would, it is unlikely that dick size contributed to the cause of death, but I was wondering. This year* I am trying something new and keeping this journal** and there is very little room to write much of anything. It’s fine, it is just a little chronicle of things, but I will still need my Googledoc diary (about one third of which I put up on this site) to have any sort of accurate picture. Because yeah, I work and eat lunch and go to yoga and the store, but I also wonder about autopsy dicks. I am all of these things, as are you.
*and, theoretically, for the next five years
**I love the boilerplate UI on that site, not changed by item for sale (and I wouldn’t expect it to be): a checkbox for “I already read it.” That blank five-year journal? Already read it.
I don’t know, maybe instead of a what-I-did-today I should turn the cramped paper journal into something simpler and more focused, like a mood log. But then The Future People who might read it would label me as a big crabby crab. It is a dissatisfied time of life generally, despite nothing being wrong. I would venture to guess that is because of the collapse of America.
I think part of the antidote to the crabby (for me, at least) is to try and have zero thoughts on first waking up. Not oh god this sucks when can I take a nap but also not hey I’m in my warm nice house and it will be a great day. No commentary. Just be in my container (my body), stretch some of its parts, breathe in and out. If I truly have trouble stopping the words, make them about that. Left ankle, right ankle, etc. Nidra myself in reverse.
MORE NEUTRALITY, ABOUT WORK THIS TIME
It’s funny when you make a little mistake. It is absolutely inevitable to make a little mistake sometimes because there is just so much shit to keep track of. When you make that little mistake, it is extra funny when someone, who is not in charge of you and frankly has a lot less shit to keep track of than you do, sends you a really long email about the mistake and how you made it. Reminding you that you do indeed have that thing, it was sent on such a such a date at 10:04 am, and here is another copy of it in case you have misplaced it, etc etc, cc a million people who also are not in charge of me and who have literally nothing to do with this.
The only right move in this situation, because it’s extra-extra funny, is to reply to that with a cheery “Thanks! Sorry I missed it!” I enjoyed picturing this person fuming. So mad that I would not fall on my sword and weep with email shame about having lost track, while on deadline, for one of the (not exaggerating) one hundred fifty documents I was trying to synthesize into one thing.
Kill them with love and leave!
—mimi smartypants is a complex assembly of microtubules and microfilaments.