Gettin' Jiggy Wit it (and other things I should never say)
I don't know why I've decided to update my journal, when, as of late, it's caused me nothing but grief. Is there a connection between writing and self-flagellation? I don't even consider this to be writing; it is more like exhibitionist blathering. The rain comes down and the pain skyrockets and I do my little arthritis jig. Oh yes, there's a jig. It was originally a nameless stretch. But it's just so silly, I call it a jig, dance to the snap-crackle-pop of my joints, and pretend I have something to dance about. And this, my friends, is how idiosyncrasies are born.
I did have a reason to dance the other night; I laughed so much I nearly ruptured my diaphragm (the muscle, in case you were wondering). A few nights earlier, I asked Mark if he wanted to drink vodka and watch "Harold & Maude." He said something like, "Oh my God! That's the Hallie-est thing ever!" Which is funny because it's true. Our plans were derailed on Monday by a series of unfortunate events, so we reconvened the night before last. It was great-- black comedy, stiff drinks, no fuckheads in sight. As many who know me will know (huh?), my idea of a good night includes plenty of silliness and a bit of reminiscing. Building upon the latter, I exhumed Poppy. And boy, was it Sloppy. Does this make sense to you? It probably shouldn't.
Yesterday, I watched a bunch of "Law & Order." I could feel the rain in my bones before it started to fall. Oh God, is that emo? "I can feel the rain in my bones..." No, it's not emo. It just sucks. Case closed. Basically, I didn't do dick yesterday. (Certain semantic analyses will conclude that my "not doing Dick" is a good thing, because people called my grandfather Dick, and he's been dead for five and a half years.)
All I've done today is take a few notes for an outstanding Lit. paper. Things like this--brainstorming papers, or thinking about anything at all-- make me wish my Dad was still alive. I feel like merely presenting him with a topic and my sketchy outline would elicit a barrage of questions I'm too stultified to ask myself. He could be so provocative, and his questions (interspersed within pseudo-lectures) forced me to challenge parts of my brain currently committed to cartoons and cop shows. I know this is selfish, wishing my father were alive so that my papers would be richer. But it's not the only reason. It's one of many on a list too long to ever transcribe. I'm approaching the gates of Maudlin Land, so I'll just do a U-ie and head back towards nonsense.
Yes, I watch too much "Family Guy." It's like an antidepressant, except it doesn't take eight weeks to lift my spirits. Sometimes, I wish I were Brian. The alcoholic, sexually-frustrated, and articulate cartoon dog and counterpoint to a homicidal, demanding infant who contrives huge plans he can never carry out. Oh shit. I'm practically there. Except my counterpoint has more hair, better taste in clothes, and a smaller vocabulary than Stewie. But who doesn't?
I did have a reason to dance the other night; I laughed so much I nearly ruptured my diaphragm (the muscle, in case you were wondering). A few nights earlier, I asked Mark if he wanted to drink vodka and watch "Harold & Maude." He said something like, "Oh my God! That's the Hallie-est thing ever!" Which is funny because it's true. Our plans were derailed on Monday by a series of unfortunate events, so we reconvened the night before last. It was great-- black comedy, stiff drinks, no fuckheads in sight. As many who know me will know (huh?), my idea of a good night includes plenty of silliness and a bit of reminiscing. Building upon the latter, I exhumed Poppy. And boy, was it Sloppy. Does this make sense to you? It probably shouldn't.
Yesterday, I watched a bunch of "Law & Order." I could feel the rain in my bones before it started to fall. Oh God, is that emo? "I can feel the rain in my bones..." No, it's not emo. It just sucks. Case closed. Basically, I didn't do dick yesterday. (Certain semantic analyses will conclude that my "not doing Dick" is a good thing, because people called my grandfather Dick, and he's been dead for five and a half years.)
All I've done today is take a few notes for an outstanding Lit. paper. Things like this--brainstorming papers, or thinking about anything at all-- make me wish my Dad was still alive. I feel like merely presenting him with a topic and my sketchy outline would elicit a barrage of questions I'm too stultified to ask myself. He could be so provocative, and his questions (interspersed within pseudo-lectures) forced me to challenge parts of my brain currently committed to cartoons and cop shows. I know this is selfish, wishing my father were alive so that my papers would be richer. But it's not the only reason. It's one of many on a list too long to ever transcribe. I'm approaching the gates of Maudlin Land, so I'll just do a U-ie and head back towards nonsense.
Yes, I watch too much "Family Guy." It's like an antidepressant, except it doesn't take eight weeks to lift my spirits. Sometimes, I wish I were Brian. The alcoholic, sexually-frustrated, and articulate cartoon dog and counterpoint to a homicidal, demanding infant who contrives huge plans he can never carry out. Oh shit. I'm practically there. Except my counterpoint has more hair, better taste in clothes, and a smaller vocabulary than Stewie. But who doesn't?