I May Have Spoken Too Soon ...

re the antibodies. ... and the wine.

Get By With a Little Help From My Wine

So.. after glass two, here is what I've accomplished:

A Clinical Thanksgiving

Here's a fun thing to try:

Next time you have the privilege of undergoing grief or other extreme mental anguish, pause at intervals and observe the course of your emotions. It's quite an interesting process.

The brain, or your psyche, or whatever controls the level of shitty you feel seems to work the same way your body does when it's fighting, the flu. A good physical equivalent to the way I've been feeling would be Swine flu (remnants of my earlier "eat worms n' die" party are obvious here).

The brain begins building mental antibodies the minute you feel that first tear roll away from your cornea, though you don't really realize it through all the turmoil that ensues.

And then, a little down the road, there's a distinct point, like a fever breaking, when you start seeing the fruits of those antibodies and the shitty starts to reside. Though, of course, it'll be a while before you're back to your vibrant, life-loving self.

I think I felt the break-point today -- with a little help from homemade popcorn and pleasantly mind-numbing property law lectures.

Oh Yeah ...

Sleep Deprivation + Sorrow = Crazy Time.

Not advisable.

Someday You'll Be Lonely Too

How appropriate:

That's the chorus of a song playing in a cafe I'm sitting in much farther from my home than I would normally travel during the week because seeing anywhere I went with her makes me cry.

I'm in the strangest, most torturous arrangement of my life.. no, I didn't get married. I'm giving her time, while only sort-of understanding what that means.

What it means to me is feeling a stinging I hedged myself against for the greater part of my mid-20's. It means suddenly seeing the fruits of my distaste for people staring me in the face in a city where everyone is the best of friends or acquaintances. It means dealing with uncertainty, that nasty little bugger that makes me squirm as I sit on my couch trying to hold on to some remnant of my job or pulls on my brain through the wine haze when I'm trying to doze off with that toy gorilla my mom gave me.

It COULD mean self-discovery, and mending, and "soul-searching" and those those other nice little ideals. But nice little ideals are always more elusive. Right now I don't have the gusto to deal with them -- just maybe to take myself by the hand again. The one hand, for better or worse, that's always there.

And at least that hand kicked some bitch's ass last weekend:

Help From a Retired Dildo

There's a large, pockmarked, somewhat discolored rubber penis sitting across from me on my shelf. It's got glitter on it and pen marks and god knows what else from all the dressing rooms and bar floors it's rolled across.

My girlfriend found it yesterday on my floor next to my suitcase still stuffed with costumes from Friday's show. She said she didn't like it, cringing at its "lifelike veins." I said don't worry, my purpose when I bought it three years ago was purely costume, not personal.

But now, as I'm sitting here across from it on Monday morning it's doing me a different kind of service. It's refusing to let some (most likely) overdramatic thoughts I've been churning around in my head seem so tragic.

It's hard to wax dark and philosophical about another impending birthday with Biff the beat-up penis perched on my shelf, assigned to his location by my grossed-out girlfriend.

I don't know why that's funny, but it is, and thank god.