Elan Morgan is a writer and web designer who works from Elan.Works, a designer and editor at GenderAvenger, and a speaker who has spoken across North America. They believe in and work to grow both personal and professional quality, genuine community, and meaningful content online.

Happily Worn Out And Aesthetically Jinxed

The Fiery One called me this morning from Manila in the Philippines! Between here and there since Tuesday he has spent time in Los Angeles, Singapore, and Tokyo, getting no more than one hour of sleep at a time while traveling through several time zones just to get to where he was going. He sounded more exhausted than I think I have ever heard him sound. He told me that he had gone beyond any of the symptoms of sleep deprivation that he had previously encountered and had moved right on to new and bizarre experiences. His brain was telling him that after people had already passed him and were out of his sight that he could still see them behind him. Logically he knew that this was incorrect, but his brain insisted that this was so. I told him to go get some sleep, pronto. Poor boy.

I know that you are on the edge of your seat wondering what time it was exactly that the Fiery One called me this morning. You are wondering this because you are concerned about the dark colouring under my eyes, my blotchy yet pasty skin, and the veinaliciousness of the whites of my eyes. He called me at 6:20 am. It’s true. I heard the phone going off in the living room, and knowing that it may well be the Fiery One and that the telephone switches over to the message manager after only three rings, I threw myself from the bed.

Throwing myself from the bed was a bad idea, but I did not have much in the way of options with the way my coordination happens to be upon waking. I landed on one foot, overbalanced, and ended up teetering on one knee and one hand. This actually turned out to be in my favour, because I had nearly forgotten that my baby brother, Fidridge, was sleeping in the living room. I sleep naked, and I don’t think he needs to see his sister flailing about naked at that hour of the morning trying to locate the telephone on the living room floor. I managed to grab a blanket and hold it up so that most of my front was covered (I had no time for wrapping it around me), find the phone, and drag it back into the bedroom with me by the end of the third ring. Fully awake in twenty seconds I most definitely was.

You are still concerned about me, though. But surely your poor appearance can not solely be due to a panicked awakening? you ask. Now you are offering me some Advil Liquigels, and a glass of chocolate milk to ease my suffering and urging me tell you the larger, deeper reason for my pain. It is so nice to have an understanding shoulder to lay my head on. I must give in.

It’s Fidridge. He arrived yesterday after hitching a ride down from Cosmopolis so that he could sell his wares at a folk festival here in Cityville. I met him for a pint at the local pub, which turned into two, because I couldn’t turn down conversation with another friend I ran into, and it was finally a warm, sunny, breezeless day in which to sit out on a patio and watch all the people smiling for all the fine weather. After that, Fidridge thought it would be a good idea to pick up some pizza and some beer so we could go relax in my apartment.

The pizza part was a good idea, but the extra beer part was another bad idea. Granted, I did not come up with it, but I did play along, so I do take some responsibility for my behaviour. Fidridge was insistent that I keep up with him and kept urging me along and telling me I needed to finish my beer. Neither of us was respecting the fact that I had to get up and go to work in a professional office the next morning, which was this morning, and this morning the error of my ways is crystal clear.

It really was excellent to have a good, long sit-down with my baby brother (at 6 feet-5 inches, he’s not so baby), but that sit-down has left me very dehydrated, tired, and less than task-oriented. Would you be so kind as to bring me a glass of water and a pillow? How about a shoulder rub?


Things that have happened today, but not necessarily because it’s Friday the 13th:

  • I could not for the life of me find my absolutely favourite and entirely irreplaceable shirt / tunicky garment. I fear it is somehow lost like my prized air force jacket.
  • The only other office-type top I had did not go with the only pants that I had ironed and ready to wear, and I only had another five minutes before running out to catch the bus.
  • The only pants that were clean and went with my top were capris, and I had not shaved my legs in over a week, so I did a quick dry shave, which always hurts and looks shitty anyway.
  • I had little bleeding spots all over my calves, which I only noticed while I was rushing down the alley and nearly late for the bus. I had to keep wiping off little bubbles of blood all the way to work. Bleeding continually out of not one but several places totally undermined the professional veneer I was trying to affect with my mad frenzy of trying to get dressed this morning.
  • Simple, unadulterated water has been managing to make me nauseous.
  • I had finally attained a size and shape that I found pleasing, and I emphasize had, because every last drop of that sickening water is puddling on top of my abdomen. I look like I’m in the early stages of pregnancy. Really sticky-outy girl guts always make me think of socks with sandals, seersucker walking shorts, dotty sun hats, and too-pink lipstick. Ick.
  • At least Friday the 13th is only screwing with my vanity and hasn’t brought about any major calamities – yet. Next thing you know I’ll get one of those huge, raging, pressurized zits or something.


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