I feel so goddamned down, I could do battle Daniel Johnston and have a shot, only a shot mind you, at winning a round. That’s down. Yeah, I admit it, he has me beat. I mean who doesn’t he beat who’s still living? Frankly, I’m not sure how he’s managed to continue living. My assignment (if I still choose to accept it) is to make certain I always lose to Daniel Johnston. (“Psst, that’s good. She doesn’t want to be dead today. Woohoo”!) This kind of talk makes me queasy. Too often down. Real down. Not good. I think it’s pharmacologist time. Oh goodie. (I have an appointment with him on Monday.)
An utterly, delightful sick story from a cousin recalls meeting the family patriarch, her uncle, for lunch. She had been something of a wild child and hadn’t gotten past it just yet. (Maybe she was in her early twenties at the most?) She remembers the peas on her plate dancing about. Uncle asked would she like help from him? She (I think realizing that peas don’t dance) accepted. He immediately took her to the psych ward of the best hospital. (Bit of backstory: she was just about to join a new cult where you create a new identity for yourself. First step is choosing a new name—Sunshine, Petunia, Orange Blossom… Coffee Grinds, whatever. This appears to have been a happy cult, doesn’t it? Wasn’t Jim Jones’ a “happy” cult until that last day or two?) No matter. Anyhow, my cousin was now checking herself into the psych ward with help from her very kind, non-judgemental uncle and is innocently asked by the nurse, “What’s your name?” She replies, “I haven’t decided yet!”
Bingo! They sure got a live one that day. Anyhow, my cousin believes that Uncle saved her life. He was quite something, and she’s still a pistol with more stories just as good or even better than this one.
Bummer for me is that I can’t be checked in anywhere. Not on all this oxygen and taking more shit than a girl knows what to do with. No rubber room. Even if I want the rubber room. At least for a little while. I’d like to be in solitude. Straitjacketed? Could be a hoot.
But damnit all, I can’t go there.
So tonight, I fall into the pit. Refuse to speak to Chip. I don’t want to punish him. Wait a minute, maybe I do. Is it punishment for telling me I’m hot when I feel I look like a leper? (You know, the Hollywood Epic lepers. As leprous as humanly possible.)
I felt like I was heading off to school with the nastiest zit on the planet, and my mother says, “Oh, you can’t even see it.” "Yeah, really?" I almost bought it. Well, she's right. It’s not so bad…Until I went to the bathroom at school, looked in the mirror and saw, my god, the Mount Vesuvius of zits. That’s the way I feel when Chip compliments me while I have tubes exiting several orifices. C’mon, honey. Moral of story: Never believe the people who love you most. They have ulterior motives…like not having you feel bad about yourself. But you idiots, it always backfires. And after that I never believe a word you say. (I know, I know—the “Do I look fat?” question is no-win. But you’ll earn respect. And when your babe is hot, she’ll actually believe you.)
Now it’s Thursday. I found it to physically painful to continue on last night. (I’m back at the table. Unhappily, but a helluva lot more comfortable than the couch.) The Civil War has just ended. (In my Grant bio. No I’ve not entered into some strange time warp. “Edith Keeler must die!) You know I’ve looked at this from multiple angles. Conclusion: I unfortunately wouldn’t have any effect on the space-time continuum. How do I know this? I don’t, but let’s get real here. Let’s just say I think that it would be a surprise to everyone if I did. You’d certainly knock me over with a feather with that one if I’m wrong about this. Look, I’m no Joan Collins.
I guess I’m coming out of my “funk” (not the good kind), by being busy every waking moment of the day. Right now, it remains exercise. Day and night. There are two serious reasons for doing it: it’s my only chance to rid myself of this hellish back pain for good, and I need to maintain a certain level of strength for the time when there is a fix for my sad lungs. My body must be strong enough to withstand surgery.
I hope there are frivolous, shallow fringe benefits to this masochistic (because exercising with little air is a misery) playtime. Perhaps my ass might reach its pulchritudinous zenith? But why should I care when I lock myself indoors? The glass half full shiny happy view of my shitass life is that I no longer look like a camp victim. While gasping for breath. That’s real progress. Nah, I still think obtaining a harder, more-shapely butt is a worthy aspiration and always satisfies. (To hell with “cures.” They’re really not as exciting as they’re made out to be. So anti-climactic.)
A toast to firm and young! (And firm)