Who’s Bad

I’m happier than the last time you saw me, but don’t tell my therapist because I spent fifty minutes today on some rant or another. He spent a lot of time constructing a metaphor about the beach or the ocean or waves or something. It was good for a while until I realized that I don’t have a beach, only endless waves crashing down. Oh what the hell, I hate the beach anyway. As I was leaving, he said, “That was some discussion,” as if it was some rare culmination of my problems instead of the tip of the iceberg.

Speaking of which, I just took the dog for a walk and passed by the creepy ground floor window that frames a larger-than-life poster of Michael Jackson. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about, Michael Jackson spends his days surveying the alley in my neighborhood where all of the hookers take their clients; I am constantly pulling Goblin away from used condoms. I feel like I can’t complain so much about things when Michael Jackson is still running around loose.


I Was Taken by Surprise

Several months ago—or I don’t know when it was, really—I had coffee with the Accidental New Yorker and he told me that he always marveled over my “encounters.” That is what he called the things that happen to me that don’t seem to happen to others, usually involving people freaking out or otherwise acting on unfathomable impulses in my presence. On some occasions, I know this happens because I try to be respectful of people that others would just walk by, so I let them do their thing, but other times I don’t have any idea what they’re reacting to. My working theory is that my extraordinary personal reserve creates a vacuum in which other people’s manias seem to flourish. It never occurs to me that people might take my introversion personally or treat getting beyond it as anything more than a game. I am not, after all, very interesting. Everyone knows I hate to talk about myself, and the only reason I ever watch television is so I will have funny anecdotes to share instead of personal revelations.

Inscrutability can be a shield, but it does not protect.

I’m writing this because tonight someone freaked out in my presence, and not just in my presence, but on me. Like it was my fault. And this was not just some random person but a new friend who I thought would become a one of those rare life-long friends. This incident was very dramatic, very sad, and so literally bewildering to me that I had one of those fluttery attacks that I get because of my bizarre heart valve condition. I’m sitting up late, hoping he’ll contact me and explain, but he probably won’t. I did respond to him in a way that was accurate to the letter but not very polite.

Anyway, am I an alien? Great, fine. But what am I not getting here? Take me to your leader.


You Heard It Here First

Locker room update: I entered the steam room the other day to discover a relatively attractive man shaving his body. Everyone else was ignoring him, but I was fascinated because he was using only his sweat as shaving cream and it looked like he was going to slice his nipple off. And he kept going over and over the same areas. I suppose you could do anything in the steam room and no one would say anything. You could get away with murder in the steam room.

OK, something good is possibly happening, but I can’t tell you what it is. There’s, like, a five percent chance it will happen, and even if it does happen, I don’t know how good it would ultimately be. Maybe it would just make my life that much more complicated. I’ve done a good enough job lately of pretending that things that are very complicated are like a walk in the park, but all of the complications have just hit my face like a pie.

But anyway, given my rate of updating lately, you can be assured that if something good does happen, you will be the last to know.


Gym J. Bollocks

I complained to Rob about this already, and now it’s your turn because you are my bestest friend. I warn you, it’s about the gym again. Perhaps you are noticing a pattern in my topics, but I can’t help it because I spend six hours a week at the gym and only point one two five minutes doing anything interesting. When I have to use the gym to parlay into the Loch Ness Monster, you know there’s something wrong.

But here is my complaint. When I’m at the gym, I sometimes notice what other people can lift on the same machines I use (I’m not just looking at their glutes). Anyway, there are all these guys who are built much better than I am lifting MUCH LESS than I can. On one particular exercise, a guy yesterday was struggling to lift just over half of what I do.

This is not me bragging, this is me cursing the universe because it is SO not fair. I work like a dog and still look hideous, and there are all of these hot guys flitting from machine to machine, doing half the work and getting twice the results. Rob says this is because I’m “wiry,” which is a nicey-nicey way of saying “evil skellington with super strength and not one discernable bicep.”

All right, so I’m wiry. And you know what goes through wires? Electricity! And you know what that means? I totally need to get a tattoo. I promised myself I would get one after a year of regular gym attendance, which will be up in April. I had thought of cheating and getting one for my twenty-fifth birthday this past December, but that came right after missing seven weeks at the gym due to impending death via a lung infection that mysteriously cleared up, so I couldn’t justify it then, but I can now. But I don’t know what to get, or where to get it, and also my foot hurts. And also, I’m hungry. You’d think my bestest friend would have brought me dinner by now.



At the gym, there are exercises I do on a machine with this design on it:

It is the logo of Freemotion Fitness, manufacturer of modern torture devices, and I know it’s suppossed to be a jaunty “M,” but to me, it looks like the Loch Ness Monster as depicted in the following authentic and unretouched photographs.



So I find myself thinking of Nessie a great deal, and of the time my husband and I spent the whole day on a train getting from Edinburgh to Inverness, which is only a few miles away from Loch Ness, only to eat a few sad pancakes and head right back to Edinburgh. I’m sure, to the Loch Ness Monster, it was like finding out your relatives are in town and did not call. Either that, or she was all, “Dodged THAT bullet!”

Other than that, there is not much to report. I have been working someone else’s shifts, on top of doing my own work, because I cruelly and mercilessly gave him a month’s pay and a good reference not to be my employee anymore. Wait until you see what I do to someone I really have it in for.


Friday Chupacabra Blogging

Coming to you live from one day in the future.

“I’d like to thank all the little people.”