#554: WRONG SIDE OF THE BED™ MORNING
It was a Wrong Side of the Bed™ morning. I am doing my darndest to be one of those cup-half-full, sunrise, face-the-day, opportunity-embracing freaks with the sunny cheeks and the cute kitten calendars. I've been kissing my cats, plotting a knitting project, actually cleaning areas of my apartment, volunteering at the theatre, and sending e-mails to nice people that I don't get to see very often. I've been taking multi-vitamins, drinking less coffee, smoking fewer cigarettes, and taking the stairs instead of the elevator.
You know what, though? Today? Fuck it.
That felt awesome. Let's do it again.
FUCK. IT. Fuck IT. FUCK it. Fuckitfuckitfuckitfuckitfuckit. Fuck it.
Fuck it, because today, my cup is half empty, and I like it that way. It's less likely to spill when one of the cats sticks his head inside the glass. Fuck it, because at this time of year, I don't even get to see the sunrise. The sun rises too late for me to even see it peek over the top of the pie-and-coffee joint across the street from my bus stop. Fuck it, because when I was getting ready to face the day, Onion rolled his white-furred self up in my last clean pair of work pants (black), I realized that the new black turtleneck I bought two days ago was forgotten in its store bag at the pub, I missed my bus while I mended a hole I found in the neck of my only other clean work top (another black turtleneck, shut up), and I couldn't even see properly out of the right lens of my glasses after Onion was through smearing his nose juice all over it and I had no time to clean it up until after I arrived at work. Fuck it, because today, the only opportunity I want to embrace is the one that presents itself when something else malfunctions and I proceed to kick the mother-loving crap out of it.
There is usually one pivotal moment that you can pinpoint as being The Sign of things to come, the moment that seems to cement how things will be on a certain day, and that moment happened while I was just discovering the recent losses of the weblogs Not Well Planned and Sprigs. I was thinking about how sad it is when good weblogs die when Oskar chose to make a particularly nasty deposit in the litter box across the room. He cried low and soft while he did it and looked at me with round, mournful eyes. Sometimes, Oskar, I said, it hurts to poop. I felt for the poor guy, because his pooping history is a troubled one. He looked at me, all black pupils with the strain, and let out a small, pathetic Mew, oh mew mew. Somehow, that few seconds spent locked in eye contact with Oskar while the acrid stench of his feces whorled invisibly through the air confirmed what had before been only a sneaking suspicion. Today was not going to be good.
I am normally not such a fatalist. I usually find fatalists pretty bloody annoying. Today, though, fuck it.
In the few hours since Oskar's plaintiff cries, the cream for my coffee curdled, I sent an embarrassing e-mail to the wrong person who was the last person who should have read it, the muffin place was out of the only two kinds of muffins I like, and just because I am feeling extra complainy: the weather is maintaining its über-depressing streak of soul-crushing grey cold, I grow hair on my toes, I'm having an allergic reaction to someone's godawful perfume, and my black socks are from two different pairs, so their differing thicknesses are creating a tactile cacophony in my brain akin to duelling fiddlers.
There now. I feel much, much better. Seriously. I feel so much better now that I am even moved to write a list of things I like that I have not seen in a while:
Things I Like That I Have Not Seen In A While
swedish cherries the old book of birds from the 1940s that my great-grandfather gave to me rainbow-striped socks with individual toes (footgloves?) facial tissues that comes in multi-colours Cheez Whiz a tongue stained blue from a jawbreaker Fig Newtons a fresh bucket full of that yellow paint city workers use to paint dividers in parking lots and the edges of sidewalks where you can't park cabbage moths fridge magnets shaped like plastic fruit a darning ball foil tape television ads for the game "Mastermind" an inner tube
There is no good way to tie this up. Lots of stuff sucks. Some stuff doesn't suck. Thank you for your patience.
This entry was written in honour of Dr. George Papanicolaou, convenient fatalism, and parking lot afficianados. It was also written in memory of my sweet Onion's testicles, which were surgically removed on October 17, 2006. They are being sorely missed.