WELCOME TO THIS ENTRY THAT IS REALLY DISJOINTED AND I’M NOT SORRY
Currently, my favorite expletive is “mother-shitter,” which I picked up from a coworker. It has replaced my previous favorite, “fucker-my-nuts,” which was also secondhand but just as lovely. Curse words are of course not meant to be taken literally ever, though when I first heard mother-shitter I was unable to not think of some great blobby being that went around popping out Moms. Thanks, dude! But also mother-shitter sounds much more forceful than the overly used “motherfucker.” It is not actually used as a hurtful epithet but rather as a great alternative to damnit.
Person one: Hey! Here’s a great big problem!
Person two: Mother-shitter.
FROM PROFANE TO TRASHY
Last week my landlord came by with one of the repair guys they use, to measure my windows upstairs. That was fine, but of course they came by at about 10 in the morning, and it was a particularly lazy morning so Anthony and I were still sitting on the futon in our flannel pants and blankets not reading so much as staring off into space. I think a lesser person (or arguably, a person with a little more pride) would feel more than vaguely sheepish to invite their landlord inside and then flop back on the futon as he and the repair guy step over the big blanket and invariably all of the bras and clothing strewn about the room upstairs. Good thing I am a relatively good tenant otherwise.
FROM TRASHY TO DORKY
Sometimes when I pour myself some coffee I do it from a ridiculous height, slowly, and assume a look of sort of stoned detachment, and I summon all of my Cate Blanchet impersonation prowess and recite that thing from that movie:
Things that were
Things that are
And some things
That have not yet come to pass
FROM DORKY TO DOWNRIGHT INTOLERABLE, SOMETIMES
I need to nap more, or get to bed earlier, or just be able to tell precisely when it is at night that I start to fall apart like a crabby toddler. These days I feel like all the sleep in the world wouldn’t be enough, and yesterday I actually napped twice and went to bed early, and I still woke up completely exhausted. This fatigue is like nothing I have ever experienced before and goes beyond any sort of strictly mental tiredness. My joints ache and my legs are noodley and my eyes are slowly sinking into my eye sockets. Just thinking of walking up the stairs to go to bed makes me tired. Walking the half mile to school in mild weather listening to happy music and with plenty of time seems like this huge undertaking, and my leaden feet and droopy eyelids can hardly make it in time. This overarching sleepiness (and subsequent crankiness) is not helped by the fact that Anthony on average gets about 2 hours more sleep a night than I do, despite the fact that historically he needs less. This makes that nightly fall-apart thing that many people experience thousands of times more intense. I have been picking meaningless fights and have just been a general pratt. But with the school-related stress level reaching it’s crescendo (April showers bring May PANIC AND ILL-FATED MISGUIDED PAPERS THAT STILL DON’T HAVE A TANGIBLE THESIS, don’t you know) I don’t even have time to even check it out, despite my nagging thought that perhaps it is something Serious. I have a coworker roped into me-monitering, and now I’m making an extra effort to eat properly so we can rule out anything else. I am calling it operation Isolate The Tired!
CORK PLASTIC-LIKE GIZMO
So I have been thinking a lot about Walter lately, mostly because the circumstances of his life were so similar to Banana’s. His circumstances were not quite as sudden but I was steered towards Euthanasia in a similar way (it was that vs. weeks of hospitalization, which was not guaranteed to do much) and my heart has been aching for Mimi and her cat’s sudden passing, to the point when I read the entry I got a little teary. And of course then when I was rambling around in her archives I found an entry about the neti pot, which sounds a lot like one of the many things the vet did to Walter the first time I brought him in. The small bird version was to take a little syringe filled with warm salt water and squirt it all into one nostril as the other became unblocked and leaked the rest of the water. It was the most extreme vet thing I have ever witnessed to date, but Walter so freaked out from the general experience (leaving the house, riding in a car, and so on,) that I don’t think that struck him as much as it would have me. But I guess breathing freely was a good trade off.
The other thing is that my friend has taken some orphaned kittens from her mom’s farm. It isn’t a permanent thing — just until they are smart enough to fend off the other kittens in the barn and can feed themselves — but they need near-constant care as they are so young. They are cute but emit a near-constant high pitched squeak that is heartbreaking in it’s own right, but it is hard for me to deal with on another level because it is exactly the sound that Walter made exclusively from the time he became sick to the time he died. Apparently birds and cats have the same primal need sound. Poetic, but very troubling, for me.
WE PAUSE TO AKNOWLEDGE A SENTENCE FROM HEIDIGGER
If we ask her, ‘who are you,’ presumably she will not answer,
‘a sample of homo sapian’.
Like hell she won’t.
