We Have a Great Offer for You Today!

Telephone: Ring. Ring. I have a phone call that is potentially really good news. Ring ring.

Scott (our hero): Good news? Oh boy! Hello?!

Mysterious Stranger: Mr. Hunter? This is Bill! We looked over your brakes like you wanted.

Scott: Well I suppose that's good n-

Bill (apparently): We're going to have to rambone your oscillators and your drivejimmies are total collywobbles on the front axle. Your bill is going to come to one solid kick in the junk and twenty minutes worth of us all laughing at you during our coffee break.

Scott: I.. what? My drivejimmies? That's n-

Bill: Mmmm, yeah. Well, listen. I can help you out. (keys clacking) I can go ahead and knock off ten minutes from your bill if you upgrade to our Extended Lifetime Super Robot Zombie Insurance Policy Plan. We guarantee that no robot zombies, super or otherwise, will cause an excessive amount of dryrot on your rightmost exterior driveshaft boot array for the lifetime of the warranty.

Scott: That... that sounds good?

Bill: Great! We'll have that ready by noon. You can pay when you pick up the vehicle. Make sure to bring a sacrificial knife for the Ceremony of Life Essence Transference!

Minimalism

I've read multiple stories and blog posts recently about the latest generation of 'lifestyle minimalists;' folks who are taking advantage of digital media to rid themselves of almost all their physical possessions save clothing, their electronics, and one or two pieces of essential furniture. Photo albums on Flickr, television by way of Netflix and Hulu. I totally dig the idea and I've been strongly considering doing one of these "get rid of an item a day" projects to reduce clutter in my own life, but I can't imagine divesting myself of print media: my books and board games. I suppose on a very fundamental level I cannot understand the mind that derives more pleasure from a blank wall than a full bookshelf.

Data Entry

Never at work do I feel more fraudulent, more like I’m taking part in some sort of masquerade, than when I am filing papers and inputting data. There’s no earthly way to make light of data entry no - matter what music is playing and no matter what faux-clever thing your coffee mug says. Mine just says “Happy Birthday!” and has pictures of balloons on it.


I look with some envy at the friends I have and the people I know whose professional lives so neatly intersect with who they are and what they do. On the other hand I feel split, except that my Mr. Hyde wears a collared shirt every day and doesn’t tell anyone that he plays Dungeons and Dragons.


The question is this: am I worried that there are two parts of me and that my work isn’t fulfilling enough? Or perhaps I’m entertaining that notion as a defense mechanism -- hiding from myself the possibility that there’s only one of me -- and he’s sitting behind a desk grading papers and confirming order requests for pens.

It’s so much easier and so much more flattering to feel oppressed and out of place.

On Waking

I’m flipping out right now. I feel like I’m tweaking on too much caffeine and too little sleep, but the last time I ingested caffeine was an espresso after brunch, thirteen hours ago. That’s cleared my system by now.

Adrenaline? More likely endorphins. I’m definitely running on a sleep deficit. I can feel that much. But I can’t sleep. I’m twitching. My fingers are shaking a little as I type. My mind is racing, racing, running itself ragged in too many directions. I can count at least three different concurrent lines of thought.

Today, for the first time in six weeks, for the first time since I essentially became an invalid, I spent a day with friends. That’s not to say I’ve been lacking for friendship in the last month-and-a-half. On the contrary, I’ve been shuttled around and lain out on futons and couches and generally been made to understand that my friends are amazing, but today was different.

I felt like I spent all day slowly waking up. I can’t describe it. A pleasant brunch, a few hours at Tommy’s house. A walk through Duck Pond. Standing in a kitchen and drying dishes. Standing. Standing. Walking.

I had a taste, a brief and bitter taste of life at the mercy of a failing body. Six weeks worth of eternity.

Today was on my own terms. I leaned on nobody but myself and although my heart swells with gratitude for the friends that I have been able to lean on it soars because I no longer need to. I’m barely coherent but I want to record how I feel. I want to shout. I want to sing. I want to cry. I do none of it but write. Barely coherent. Fragments.

Today was a day of simple pleasures. There was nothing grand in my activities. It was a day that is the echo of a dozen dozen days just like it. But today was beautiful. Today was the day that made me appreciate the dozen dozen days just like it.

Today I woke up.

Spinal Crap

Can’t sleep. Maybe it’s for the best. I was laying in bed and remembered that I promised myself that I would start writing more. It seems to be a promise that I make myself regularly, but it’s probably better that I at least feel guilty about it. Better guilt than nothing at all.

Two weeks ago I had a discectomy. Apparently one of the discs in my spine was getting uppity and encroaching on the surrounding nerves. Since I don’t negotiate with terrorists I hired a crack team of neurosurgeons to go in and take out the rebellious section of disc. There was some unfortunate collateral damage, mainly in the form of them having to apparently chainsaw through by back to get there.

All things considered, I can’t believe how quickly I’ve healed. I’ve still got some pain in my leg, but it’s not nearly what it was before the surgery. And from what I can tell, the surgical wound itself is almost completely healed. I had the staples out yesterday. One downside is that the incision makes it look like my asscrack goes halfway up my back. So that’s cool. I’ll be the hippest cat at the beach this summer.

Still Life

The castle rises from a field of green, soaring above the soldiers patrolling its outskirts. Its walls are a uniform shade of grey speckled with darker tones that stand out garishly against the plain background field. Small arched windows have been set in the walls, and above them, archers patrol the battlements. Where castle meets ground is green plastic speckled with raised dots, anchoring the mighty walls in place, and likewise the soldiers, forever half a step forward but never quite completing it; Sisyphus with a fixed plastic smile. They grip halberds and swords and wear helmets and breastplates, but their legs have no knees and their belts are painted on. The archers on the walls carry their bows but cannot hold them properly, let alone aim them. Aiming is difficult without wrists or elbows or even proper shoulders. Their leader has a red beard over his smile and a plastic feather on his plastic helmet. He rides a black horse and carries a long lance with a flag on the end; a crown of fluttering red and yellow. Beard and flag and lance and feather make a leader of men. In the distance is the invading army. A ninja rides a Tyrannosaurus Rex and marshals his troops – a slinky and three spacemen and a giant robot and Moses in a convertible. His beard is a plastic rictus. His tablets are in the passenger seat.

Big Gaping Chest Wound

I'm convinced that the medicinal regimen that the veterinarian put Sadie on is in fact a subversive psychological experiment to see how long it will take before my cat tries to rip my eyes out via my nostrils.

On Monday night I noticed that she had a wound on her stomach. I'm not talking about a scratch or anything like that. I'm talking a skin-flapping, gut-churning, glistening thing that could have fit a silver dollar inside.

Gross. Gross.

So I took her into the vet Monday morning and of course they want to run a blood test. Just because she was running a fever and had a gaping chest wound. The nerve of the guy.

Anyway, twice daily I have to clean the thing out, then slather some goo on it from another bottle. Then, because my cat refuses to eat the hollow fishy treats that are supposed to hold her pills, I get to shove a turkey baster down her throat and inject the damned thing right into her throat.

--

This is probably the third or fourth attempt in my life to start a blog. But these blogs are run by our benevolent Google Overlords, so I have faith that I'll be able to keep it up for a while.

I've also got a lot of thinkin' time at work so that's a help.