Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.
eliade

good morning, vietnam.

I dreamed last night that I was a young, rich debutante and that I got pregnant. I was angry at my mother when she revealed--only after the fact, thanks--that there was a high rate of birth defects in our family and that the baby had a thirty percent chance each of being born retarded, dead, or crippled in the legs. "Do you think I would have gotten pregnant if I'd known this?" I yelled. "No!"

I don't know what that's about. Writing, maybe. "Do you think I'd have written this story if I knew it'd turn out stillborn? No!" Or something like that. Not that I have any particular story in mind. Ahem.

My fantasies have turned sadistic over the last 48 hours and I have been excessively libidinous, which means exactly what you think it means. For years I've been able to anticipate my bloody cycle by the penultimate premenstrual stress day, when I get depressed, exhausted, or quasi-suicidal. But sometimes that day isn't the gloom day, it's the "Jesus Christ, will someone just shove their fist up my &!#@#$% and put me out of my misery?!" day. It's fucking distracting. Distracting by fucking.

Overheard. One of my most quotable co-workers to another, in a deadpan, by-the-way tone perfected by Steven Wright: "Oh, L----, would you like to be disheartened?"

Now I am bleeding and squint-eyed and dubious about the day ahead. But not entirely in a bad mood, I am editing to add, just so people don't get the wrong idea.
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