so for example
Nobody wants a tired-ass summary of Why I Haven’t Been Blogging, but let me just say that there has been a severe lack of connection between me and the world. The world is the loop part of the velcro, but my hooks are full of lint. Or my hooks are defective and facing the wrong way. Or maybe I am also a section of loops, so me and the world are just bumping up against each other uselessly without any stickiness. That doesn’t result in a whole lot of words coming out of my keyboard. I need friction. Friction gets me interested, being interested leads to observation, observation leads to whatever the hell it is I do here online.
Supposedly there are things you can do to increase the grabbing power of your hooks. Blah blah blah mindfulness! Blah blah gratitude! Blah hallucinogenic mushrooms, blah watching the sunrise over a mountain, blah blah exercise and eat right, blah blah keep a journal (HA HA HA THAT LAST ONE). (She laughs hollowly.) None of it works very well! The mushrooms probably work, but I don’t have time for that right now. Maybe I can take a drug holiday from work. A leave of absence…(*groovy psychedelic voice*)…INTO MY MIND.
Eh, that would probably suck too. It might just suck in a different way.
Not much middle ground: either I have anxious hamster-wheel brain or I could hardly give half a fuck. Hamster wheel = better for writing this online diary thing, but bad for sleeping and feeling good about my life. Not giving a fuck is bad for writing stuff down, GREAT for sleeping, reading, and watching television, and a huge ehhhhhhhhh for everything else. Not giving a fuck makes me feel like every single human activity is nothing more than a pleasant-enough distraction on the road to death.
Some of you amateur psychiatrists are going to be quick to read this dichotomy as a battle between anxiety/hypomania and low-level depression, but that’s not really quite what is going on. The velcro* thing is way more apt. THE VELCRO THING IS APT OKAY JUST GO WITH IT. (Thank you.)
*You may notice that I refuse to give velcro its proper trademarked due. They seem to want all caps and that’s just ridiculous. I feel similarly about Captain Crunch cereal (jesus god, why is it officially “Cap’n”? That’s a fucking abomination.) (Incidentally, I do not believe I have ever eaten Captain [Cap’n] Crunch cereal in my life—I am more of a Cinnamon Toast Crunch lady—but for some reason I know that the Captain’s full official name is Horatio Magellan Crunch.) (And that his voyages were famous for nonstop cabin-boy buggery.) (Aaaaaaand if I turn up in a ditch with a bullet in my head, you know Quaker Oats/PepsiCo is responsible. I LOVED YOU ALL.)
HERE’S SOME OTHER CRAP
- I was reading a book, nothing demanding, just some British novel of “psychological suspense” or some shit, and I came across a word I have never read before in my life. Not to brag on my dope self, but do you know how rare that is for a literary bitch like me? And it wasn’t some David Foster Wallace twenty-dollar adjective, either, it was a four-letter noun, and that noun was snib. Snib! Just sitting there in an ordinary sentence, like it was NBD. Someone walked to a door and something something snib. Well okay then. You learn something new every day, crappy gunked-up velcro or no.
- I enjoyed the following impromptu conversation with my colleague, when we met up at the break-room microwave:
Me: How’s it going.
Her: Fuck this.
Me: So hard.
Her: In the worst way possible.
Me: Like, in a way that wouldn’t even be on Oz.
Her: Totally.
- Recently I tweeted that I was going to visit an Intimate Waxer for the first time ever, and ask her to perform a Certain Service on a Part of My Body. The process wasn’t fun, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as my imagination had made it out to be, and the results are preferable and less…bumpy than Other Methods. The Intimate Waxer was a Polish lady who chatted the entire time, because I guess silence would make the situation even weirder than it already is. The Intimate Waxing room had a very odd mirror that I checked out thoroughly to make sure it wasn’t two-way, before I disrobed. I never did figure out why it was hung at that height, you’d have to be extremely tall or stand on the table to check out your junk in it. Oh well.
- Somewhat related: there is a pool hall (really! In 2016!) on Montrose that has had the same marquee sign for literally decades: WE HAVE SMOOTH SHAFTS AND CLEAN BALLS. Oh pool hall, you are so juvenile, but I have grown to love your stupid sign. Then last weekend I was driving by and THE SIGN IS DOWN. I was vaguely sad about it. I still am.
- Happier: right outside my office building, first thing in the morning, I saw a crow eating a dead pigeon, just looming over the body and pulling up beakfulls of pigeonmeat, ahhhhhhhhhh I was so happy to see it! I tried to tell someone on the elevator but it didn’t seem to make her as happy as it made me.
—mimi smartypants is a porcupine, you know she’s untouchable/she’s a full meal, you just a Lunchable.