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I doubt if they'll ever ask me to write predictions for the Week1y W0rld News (the foremost in grocery store creative writing), but this last one was spot on: He Played Too Much: Satan Lives In East Coast Man's Sinuses! All that crap about "timing" and "momentum"... I timed the excessive partying right in sync (please, God, no Google for that) with the pollen tidal wave. Ever heard of a R0bin Hitchcock song called "Balloon Man"? Pretty descriptive. Head inflated to 150psi., just short of the inevitable explosion. Eyes swollen. Sore. Snotty. Gag! ...and it's supposed to be in the eighties, today. Fuck. Me. So, I begged off work, and here I sit, making up for yesterday. A "Golden" day. Four hours sleep, disrupted by the cat lunging at my face at 7 AM... which I returned in kind. Finding a tick stuck to my hip. Dozing off for a few minutes, dreaming of my scalp covered with them (in various stages of inflation and size). I guess that would qualify as a nightmare, if it weren't morning. Great theme for a horror flick. That did it. I got up, separated the clothes and started the wash... at 7:30. On a Sunday. Rock and Roll, dewd! Still no word from her, up to noon... so I grabbed the marathon guides and rolled to F'bg. Forgetting the cell phone... which was a mistake. Returning aruond four, there was the SAAB in the driveway. I walked in the door, and hit the invisible trip-wire for the argument to detonate... "I tried to call you!!!" "Where were you!!!" Blah. Blah. Blah. Good to see you, too. And where were you for two days? So I mowed the lawn. For three hours. In a cloud of dust and pollen and fuck all. And then tried to make some sense of this situation. The response: the usual tears, self recriminations and doubts, resentment of friends and motivations and the status quo. And will anything change? Of course not. For the rest of the evening, not another word spoken. Thank you, HB0. Meanwhile, the pulse magnified in my head. Sinuses, likewise. And snot. I guess the real solution is for me to walk. So I can pay for two residences. So we both can wallow in self-pity. So some kind of progress can be made to make this life liveable. Sounds like fun. Not with this head. And now, I feel too shitty to leave for work. Fuck. Fuck-Fuck-Fuck-Fuck, Fuckity-Fuck. |
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