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.

#505: YOU, AND YOUR LITTLE RED WAGON, TOO

I'm having a crisis.

Okay, that's just a touch melodramatic. I am feeling resistant, stiff, inflexible.

I had this dream the other night that I woke up and realized that I had no idea who I was, that I was a stranger to myself. Then, I woke up out of that dream and checked myself. Yes, I was actually awake, and yes, it was still true that I didn't know myself. Thank god, I thought, because I've been a right bitch lately.

Two days before that, I got my period.

I still sort of want to kick somebody's ass. And then maybe grind it into hot asphalt. With rock salt on it. And then make them sit on steel wool and do quadratic equations.

The cat keeps pacing from the window sill, across the scanner, in front of the computer screen, to the teapot, and back again. In my most bright and conversational voice, the one I used during my brief run-in with the cult of Tupperware, I keep saying to him with each pass You'll die soon, honey and Sweetness, your life is getting shorter and shorter. I could put him down on the floor and put an end to his compulsive behaviour, but then how would I indulge in my malignant passive aggression?

Don't worry. He's too thick to know. He's cuddling with the scanner and licking one of its cords at the moment. I think passive aggression flies well above his emotional radar.

I know, I'll scan something for you. You'll love it. Whatever it turns out to be.

.......

Except that I went hunting for the fucking DC-12V adapter and came up with a 5.2V, a 9V, and an AC power adapter. What kind of house do I live in where I can find three different kinds of adapters but not the fourth one that matters? With everything in this apartment detached from its adapters, I am beginning to think that this whole place is not adapting all that well.

It's not just me. It isn't. Most things are unplugged around here.

And guess what else? My period was over with for a day-and-a-half but decided to make an unannounced visit again this afternoon at work. It seems to think that I care for its company. I used to know a woman like that. She kept showing up spontaneously all over the place and drove me into a paranoid reclusion. She believed that a person could carry demons inside them that they contracted from their mother in the womb. She also claimed to be allergic to food.

Each and every old friend she mentioned turned out to be an ex-friend, and she described all of them as having bizarre behaviour and mood swings. When I had to go into hiding to be rid of her, I thought, Now I get to be one of her crazy ex-friends. It was such a relief.

I don't think I have done myself any favours by forgetting to take my St. John's Wort for five days during the moving process and then taking it erratically for the next seven.

Also, I think I'm getting older, because this period thing is starting to feel juvenile. Do you get that? It's like I'm that woman who is still wearing body sparkles that get caught in her wrinkles and a permed ponytail that runs from blonde to brunette to grey roots. That should just stop already.

I just absentmindedly picked my nose. I forget that I am in front of two large windows facing into a courtyard and that we don't have any real drapes yet. During the first week I was That Lady In Suite Fourteen Who Should Really Put Some Clothes On Already. This week I am That Lady In Suite Fourteen Who Picks Her Nose And Flicks It At The Window Screen. Nobody likes a nose-picker.

Maybe I should take this as an opportunity to fill the naked nose-picking niche market.

Places I've read recently: Blood and Guts: Helena Lazaro, You Forgot Poland!, and Through My Lens.