READ SEVEN THINGS THAT ARE GOOD, SCHMUTZIE SAYS
While my brain has become slow as bread dough these days, throwing me into a fuzzy grey space in which creativity and the construction of full sentences are mere ideas beyond the real (except for these few, which took me an hour to write), I am still somewhat literate, and I have found a few good things to share. We can all pretend that the show of my good taste through choosing the following posts by other people whose brains are not presently slow as bread dough is somehow an extension of my own skills, which I am sure will re-emerge again with the longer daylight hours and a twist of pharmaceuticals. Enjoy!
"Day One! Or, Snatching My Child's Nuts From The Jaws Of Defeat" is a slightly older one from Fussy, but it is not to be missed:
But I had a whole month to ignore the problem and so, thinking that it would somehow solve itself -- thinking perhaps that a five-year-old would shrink for my convenience -- I went back to doing whatever it is I do with my life. Until yesterday, the morning of October 31, when I was getting Jackson dressed for school and found his wee nutsack was still being cleaved like something cloven by the tiny ninja outfit.
A friend of mine, a brilliant woman whom I knew for six years, was a natural at confrontation. Discussions could feel like they were being held in a room filled with eggshells and spun glass. We'd be speaking along, cruising at high speed through high and low subjects, and then I would say something. Along came the pursed lips; the eyes narrowed behind her expensive glasses.
You just wanted to say "poop" and "puma" in the same sentence.
I had worn a motorcycle jacket to church, and looked, with my stubbly face and short curly hair, like a drug dealer. Or worse, like someone who wanted to be a drug dealer but couldn’t get the real drug dealers to notice him. Or even worse, like a Grease reject. Plus I had a massive coldsore clinging to my lip that hurt like a bitch when I smiled. I talked, grinned, flinched from the pain but kept going, determined to get something worthwhile out of church attendance. Her fixed smile and unfocused blue eyes betrayed a deep desire to get away from me.
Here's an idea, Dr UnnecessaryComment. Dr Shutthefuckup. Dr WhyYouGottaBeThatWay. How about YOU eat less? Specifically, why don't you eat less infected gorilla scrotum? I can only surmise that you have the simian foamy virus and it has attacked your brain and that is why you are making no sense.
I’ve swallowed your pills, I’ve followed your schedule, I’ve been hopeful and hopeless. I’ve struggled, I’ve fought, I’ve raged, I’ve slept, I’ve vomited, I’ve cried, I’ve put on a brave face, I’ve dry heaved, I’ve sucked it up, I’ve given in. I’ve walked through your doors, I’ve met your receptionist, I’ve sat on your faded floral couch under buzzing fluorescent lights.
I look at Jason, who has finished pumping helium into the second heart-shaped balloon and is now twisting a tiny piece of plastic at its nape. It is not his fault. He is being paid virtually nothing. Someone in his position could have been nice, but he certainly isn't being paid for it. The paucity of his wages simply provides the affordability of the goods. That is all. Most of us have come to expect no more than indifference from the likes of him. I look around the interior of this store. A bird has escaped the weather and sits on a bare metal girder of the ceiling.