Hormones have officially gone missing. Oh they’re here. They’re making their presence known those sons-of-bitches. I’ve just be unable to reel them in and give them the long timeout they most richly deserve. When will my body stop conspiring against me? It’s done enough damage. Now, it feels the need to rub my face in shit for the fun of it. How cruel. Yo body, I’ve got the message.
No, I don’t. (As I hang my little head in shame.) I don’t know a damned thing. Because if my dot of a crisis plays a role in the trials and tribulations of the Universe, that’s really silly. That’s really too much. That’s really too funny to fathom. Whoever you are, I think you could have picked on someone who actually has a role in the trials and tribulations of the Universe. “Oops, my mistake, Franny babe.” I can forgive, once you correct the fucking situation. I promise, after such “correction” has been made, I’ll be generous in forgiving your stinking, lousy mistake once you right it.
Randy Newman’s got it hands down:
"I burn down your cities--how blind you must be
I take from you your children and you say how blessed are we
You must all be crazy to put your faith in me
That's why I love mankind
You really need me
That's why I love mankind"
Cool fact of the day. The reason Key to the Highway appears on Layla is because the band overheard the song in the next studio being recorded for Sam Samudio’s Hard and Heavy. They liked the tune. They recorded it. Wow. Fuck, it just doesn’t get any better than that.
Today I embrace my curmudgeonly-ness. Yes, I love the small stuff. (Though every now and again I would appreciate a really big good thing. May I have one now please?) But realistically, where I’m at is it, my darlings. Oh, over the past three years (after relearning how to walk and such), the improvements have been teeny and incremental. (Redundancy seems apropos here.) I feel perfectly entitled to be one fucking curmudgeon. And even if I wasn’t entitled, who’s going to stop me?
It’s a riot to feel so free locked up in an apartment. They could make a sitcom out of it. Nah, way too much depressing , and each episode would be one thought balloon after another. Now I am big fan of thought balloons, but I think they need to meted out judiciously or else they lose their punch.
When I first got the cancer diagnosis (back in the good old days), Chip had heard of these adult (as in “grown-up” not “porno”) cartoon books where the authors/artists each tell of her own experience with cancer. One was okay. Not haha, but it had a hopeful ending. Then Chip found another one that the reviews all said this is the one to get. Hysterical, really helpful as you begin your ordeal. Another young woman gets breast cancer, has lumpectomy, cancer come back with a vengeance, she finds she looks best in a blue wig she picked up (that must have been the uproarious part) for cheap one day out with her girlfriends. More cartoons relating to the illness. Then they just stop. Just stop. Well all you asshole critics, it stops because she’s dead. She’s dead. She is dead. A real pick-me-up. All I can say, if you or a loved one has cancer, you’re better off with Haikus for Jews. They really are funny. And no one dies in the end.