I Am A Raucous Ball Of Joy Today, Oh Yes, I Am

It is a blechy, blechy Monday. Thus far, I am none too thrilled with how it is turning out. Yesterday, my arms were achy, and their muscles felt like I had really strained them or had them crushed under some car’s tires. Today, the arms seem fine, but my torso is all tight and sore. Breathing deeply is a chore, and the whole thing feels like one large bruise. Blech.

Oh, and my leftover pizza is extra greasy, and I hate overly greasy pizza. Seriously, there is orange oil sitting on the plate I used.

My stapler has become very stiff for some unknown reason, and now it has to be a two-handed endeavour. I keep forgetting until I hear the bones in my right hand doing that cracking thing they do just before the pain hits.

We are all out of actual cream, and so I have gone against a promise to myself and used the powdered cream substitute. I feel like a whore to the effect of creaminess. I worry about what this shit will do to my internal organs.

I threw out a pile of tangled paperclips today, because I was too lazy to untangle them. I am a horrible and unfeeling person sometimes when it comes to the environment.

I tried turning on the plastic orange pumpkin that has a flashing lightbulb inside it that I got as a present in an effort to feel cheerier, but the battery had gone dead. This was a foolish and desperate thing to try to do, because I don’t like Hallowe’en very much, and it’s long past anyway.

I am four hours away from a hot bath. There should be a clause in our charter of rights and freedoms that all people should have ready access to steaming tubs of water. Especially if their ribcages are constricting uncomfortably around their internal organs.

Also, I have that awful feeling of being cold from the inside. I am shivering and goosebumpy.

Why all these complaints? It’s one of those days in which you feel as though you are being tormented, like a caged animal being poked with a stick held by a sticky child, or a little like staring at those purple suspenders in Sartre’s Nausea.

It feels like there should be something different happening. Not anything remarkably different, and in fact, very much the same. It seems as though all of reality has shifted a little to the left or to the right, and I can’t tell which way it’s gone or in what way it appears differently, because there is nothing right with which to make a proper comparison. I am left swaying in the hallway between rooms, wondering what it was again that I was going to do.

I want something comforting and stable: a hot bath, cheesecake, my old cat Ramòn’s nose pushed into my hair, chocolate milk and grilled cheese sandwiches, the closet under my grandmother’s stairs, being rolled into a tight cocoon in a clean blanket, thick cream in strong coffee, soft paper and a wet pen, the spaces inside the O’s I filled in during church in the hymnal.

This feeling scares me. It makes me want to forget things. It makes me want to avoid everything, not think not say not act not want not feel. I will crawl under blankets and watch television or hide out in the bathtub adding hot water hourly, feeling my body growing soft and baby-weak, enduring the growth of my guilt in proportion to all the wasted hours of my days.

This existential angst must not be a rational response to the predicament of my life, because surely a rational conclusion would not leave a person crawling away for cover against the seeming futility of breathing and thinking and feeling and doing? Or perhaps this nihilo-existentialism is not necessarily bound up with emotional hopelessness. Then it is the feeling coupled with the thought that I should do away with. Life may be futile, but why not dance through it anyway?

Where is the god to make me chicken noodle soup and smooth the hair from my forehead? Hmm? I thought we were so supposed to have one of those around here somewhere.

Love (an excerpt from “The World”)
Czeslaw Milosz, 1911 - 2004

Love means to learn to look at yourself
The way one looks at distant things
For you are only one thing among many.
And whoever sees that way heals his heart,
Without knowing it, from various ills –
A bird and a tree say to him: Friend.

Then he wants to use himself and things
So that they stand in the glow of ripeness.
It doesn’t matter whether he knows what he serves:
Who serves best doesn’t always understand.

I Get To Stay At My Job, My Existential Angst Is Still Intact (despite how ancient my goth teenhood), And som Schnackenberg

A Mish Mash In Many Parts, Because It Is Friday And I Am Brainless And I Can't Suck On Jolly Ranchers And Type At The Same Time (or An Illustration Of My Off-Kilter Side)