December 6th, 2005


I'm getting a divorce.

I woke up this morning and decided that's it. I'm leaving my body. Its wild mood swings, the lies--pretending to be starving to death just to get that piece of coconut pie--its refusal to fall asleep, its constant need to pee--really, just the overall shocking way it's aged over the last twenty years--I can't take it any more. It calls me "cerebral." I call it a tapped-out lazy self-indulgent whore. You think I'm being harsh, but I've been living with it for thirty-six years, plus that whole time-share womb period. Let's just call it irreconcilable differences.

If anyone knows where I can meet a nice body, twenty-two to twenty-four, with moderate hormones and a decent rack, please let me know. Thanks!

ETA: Edited to correct the time on this post.

overheard in the office so far this week...

"I just rub the butter right on the bagel. I'm pretending it's someone I know."


Of Mt. Rainier, visible through the windows:
- "If it blows, we'll be the first to know."
- "And the first among the dead."
- "Ah, but will we know we're dead, though?"


- "He's so disingenuous."
- "Is that a word?"


My manager: "That's about as much fun as getting shot in the head."


"I'll be home around six. Don't let the dog eat that."


ETA: Oh, by the way, joy: I am no longer sitting by Annoying Cubicle Woman, *and* I am also out of hearing range of the senior manager's barking-dog clock. The one with a different dog bark for every hour. The one where, at noon, the Labrador Retriever barks twelve times.

Knock on wood for both of these.

ETA2: "Hey, I'm not a trained monkey. Not any more."

hard stuff, et cetera

I haven't forgotten or abandoned the comment fic; I meant to say that earlier today more than once. The rest are just ripening somewhere in there.

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I'm looking at a randomly chosen passage from Pessoa:
"Knowing that work will never be finished is bad. Worse, nevertheless, is never-done work. The work that we do, at least, is left done. It may be poor, but it exists, like the miserable plant in the only pot my crippled neighbor has. The plant is her joy--sometimes it's mine as well. What I write, and recognize to be bad, can also supply a few moments of distraction from worse things to one or another sorrowful or sad spirit. It's enough for me, or it's not enough, but in some way it's useful, and that's the way my whole life is."

That was just an orphan passage, pulled from the pages to show itself off despite its resistant frown and awkward manner of speech. Pessoa is only awkward when he intends the words to carry that sense of discomfort with themselves, working from one thought to the next in a broken crawl.

I'm starting to get so fumble-fingered and loose-headed with tiredness that I'm at risk for quoting even more random lines from whatever poems lie to hand, or maybe I'll move on to something cryptic about quarks.

But really I'm going to bed. See you tomorrow when the heavy eyelids have lifted again and freed me.