As I sit watching football with the mute button on though I am a human mute button so why even bother? (No, I can hear. Only not very well. I just like the idea of being my own mute button…I find it amusing. I’ve lost my touch. Please, you needn’t tell me what I already know. It disgusts me. (Perhaps a good narrative device? Make note to self.)) Like I give a shit about the NFL. Don’t get me started on them. I think them evil incarnate.
I sit on the doughnut placed as always on my spot on the couch. (At the far right.) I'm annoyed at my continued deafness. (Conveniently forgetting that seconds ago I was amused by it.) I know that my hearing will improve as the day goes on. I don't know why it does that. If I did, I'd do it all the time and do away with this annoyance once and for all. Why am I convinced I'll be spending the next three months with stents in my ears? Can't wait.
Today, Chip is riding to eradicate some incredibly rare genetic disease that has only been found in fewer than 500 Ashkenazic Jews. No I didn't miss a zero. 500. What a nice boy he is! I’ve completely ruined him.
I'm being babysat by my mother today. (I cannot be left alone.) She made me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. (God love ‘em!) And brought me a nice glass on water with plenty of ice just like I like it. We sit here like a couple of alta kockers. She can't hear either. We make a great pair.
I have been told by my P.T., the very best in the entire world, to make sure I drink lots of water after she's finished with me- leaving me nothing more than a limp dishrag. (No, she doesn't give me a dish rag, I am the dishrag.) She said it was important to wash out the toxins her work had released during the session. I always knew it. I now have proof. I am toxic. Poison. Venomous. Contaminated. I guess that's something, isn't it?
Next week, I am emailing my query letter and a couple (or maybe three) of chapters to an old Carrie Palmer Weber Junior High School and Paul D. Schreiber High School classmate of the Port Washington Union Free School District who is now a literary agent. Hamana, hamana. I'm actually really happy with the query letter. But I have absolutely no fucking idea which chapters to send. A me, a Europe, and a Brooklyn? Which ones? As my (toxic?) hormones are now off for a visit to Alpha Centauri, I'm entirely useless. May my husband be of some assistance in this matter.
My uselessness: I just published this post as is, because I have taken an overdose of stupid pills (in addition to the output of my the endocrine system that now stretches well beyond our galaxy) which allow me to remember nothing, make moronic choices, and misplace all remaining brain cells. Pain in the butt, that’s what this is. So, I’m deaf and dumb. My glasses are prescriptions behind, so I’m working on blind. It’s too bad, but I think I’d only be worse at pinball which I was never very good at in the first place. Franny’s Holiday Camp.
(Don’t fret, I deleted the post so if I’m lucky, no one will have been the wiser.) But I was smart enough to copy and save it in word first. Wasn’t that clever for a (temporary) idiot?) I’m pleased as punch.
I have just slept for the past two hours, and I’m now fresh as a daisy. Fresh to eat the Vietnamese food Chip, my rider, my tough guy, is hunting and gathering right now. Life is good is it not? No not really, but the dinner should be dandy. I guess lying down for two hours doesn’t help clear those Eustachian tubes. Maybe peak season will last a bit longer this year. Get ‘em while they’re hot.
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