The Final Mission

A week and a half ago, I was depressed yet again. (I’m such a dumbshit. If I used my light box regularly, I might actually know if it had any impact on how I’m feeling. I don’t, so I don’t. Foolish girl. Big news: a new plaint has tumbled from my lips: “I can’t bear it.”

Yes, on the face of it it’s yet another whimper (or yelp) that I can’t live any longer feeling like I do. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. (Spoken à la Yul Brynner.)

I’ve had the idea that I’m getting closer to the core of my own personal version of my Journey to the Center of the Earth. And you’re all invited, as I write (and rewrite) the sequel. (Like “penne alla vodka except it will be “journey à la Fran.” Huh?) If anyone prefers the penne, I can’t help you.

Actually, I can’t help you with either pasta or movie scripts. But if you feel the urge for movie sequels or at the very least, the idea of movie sequels, let’s play pretend. Because that is what I live for, you know. (It reminds me of strange bit on the Sarah Silverman Program. Sarah and another young women are supposed to taking out a “mentally-challenged person” out for fun and games. It seems a mistake has been made and the women argue back and forth: No, you’re the retard! No, you’re the retard! No you’re the retard!” And so on. It was very funny. Ah, guys, you embarrass me! But you already knew how insensitive and appallingly politically incorrect I can be, aw shucks. I’m beet red. No, you’re the retards!

All right there is nothing but strange on The Sarah Silverman Program.

Back to let’s play “pretend Franny’s life.” Okay not a pretend life, but a pretense of a life. We can play “script write and rewrite” if you want to try? Let’s do it! (No, I’m a retard!) First of all, get this straight, in my Journey to the Center of the Earth, The Final Mission, Gertrude the duck comes back. S’alright? Or I'm not playing.

Now that we have that out of the way, the big Icelandic he-man would be awfully nice to have around but sadly, I have to let him go. I’ve got Chip. And he beats the he-man Icelandic dude hands down.

About a week and a half ago, I blurted out a brand new message of pain and sheer nastiness. “I can’t bear it” What felt different about it is that I’ve been so incessantly down without many breaks. (Except when watching the HBO lead up shows for the Winter Classic. Those and The Winter Classic itself were my Calgon (Take Me Away!). I should live in Canada.) But the Winter Classic is history, and I’m not. I may be splitting hairs, but as I open up more and more during my weekly massage, the sadder and sadder and more frightened I become. I have been warned umpteen times to expect this. I must tell you, that doesn't provide a muon of backbone when the inevitable happens when even a muon is better than none.

From day, hmmm, let’s say fifty two, I’ve gotten weepy now and again for me. My poor dear Chip Rabkin drew real honest-to-god tears. But a tear (or maybe even two, could that be so hard, for crying out loud?)?) never for me. Never for drawing the short straw. I’ve kept my demon hidden away. I think, as Rachel, my lovely and talented massage therapist, peels me like an onion, I get closer to all of my crap I’ve held back for four years now.

Chip Rabkin. He was my guy. He was my partner in illness. We became sick together. His success was my success. Who have I been kidding besides myself? I’m walking a tightrope without a net. I can drop dead at a moment’s notice. Should I be shocked at this? No, I just can’t bear it.

P.S. Re: Journey to the Center of the Earth, The Final Mission. I think some of this is workable. Now how to get me down to Atlantis in a wheelchair with enough oxygen tanks will be a toughy. Hey, perhaps there’s room for the Icelandic he-man in this sequel. Gotta keep thinking. Thinking, thinking, thinking…