Getting a decent night’s sleep is just getting harder all the time. Frankly the concept of sleep in me is like the concept of thought in Paris Hilton it seems. I however don’t have the night vision cameras, and thus wake non famous and poor.
But yes, the nights are hard. Last night, I had the uneasy feeling that newly immigrated men were trying to break into my room to shampoo me. But why?
I tossed and turned. I shuddered at every sound. I kept imagining things much in the way kids do on sitcoms minus the laugh tracks or newly botoxed characters playing ages they might’ve enjoyed in another sitcom. I saw shadowy forms, and at 3 a.m. the American eagle hoodie I had draped over a chair resembled Condoleezza Rice on roller skates. Not as scary as you might thing, but enough to slow down the mood for sleep.
When I finally did fall asleep, I had that same hideous nightmare in which a woodchuck is trying to claim my prize at a raffle. Despair. *sigh.
I think my allergies are getting worse. Then there’s my bronchitis… The wheezing comes and goes, and I get dizzy more and more frequently. I have taken to violent choking and fainting…Well I take violent to the grocery story and I let chocking pick out restaurants for fainting and me (I have yet to find appropriate nicknames for them, but all in due time).
My room is dull and unforthcoming to the troubles I make for myself. I have perpetual chills and palpitations of the heart. It’s not even the lady band Heart, with their hits like, “Magic man” or “All I wanna do…” it’s the other heart. The heart that does the cardiovascular stuff I never much paid much attention to in biology. I think I sweat more, I’m sure my cholesterol is up, and I noticed, too, that I am out of salad dressing. Will such suffering ever stop?
Idea for a story: A man awakens to find his hamster has been made Vice President for International Operations. He is consumed with jealousy and shoots himself, but unfortunately the guns is the type with a little flag that pops out, with the word “Bang” on it. The flag pokes his eye out, and he lives—a chastened human being who, for the first time, enjoys the simple pleasures of life, like farming or sitting on an air hose.
Thought: why does man exist? He exists to love. And not only love but also to be a moron…I think that’s what Oprah said anyway.
Should I marry P.? Not if he won’t tell me the other letters in his name. And what about his career? How can I ask a man of his hotness to give telemarketing?! Decisions…
Well once again I tried committing suicide—this time by wetting my nose and inserting it into the light socket. You’re reading this so, you know it didn’t work…I have that kind of luck…there was a short in the wiring and I merely caromed off the microwave. I don’t have to worry about waxing anymore I guess.
Such stuff has yet to make me gloomy about changing my outlook on life. Yep, I’m still obsessed by thoughts of death, maybe more so. I brood constantly. I keep wondering if there is an afterlife, and if there is will they be able to break a twenty?
I ran into my half sister today at a funeral. We had not seen one another for twelve years, but as usual she produced a pig bladder from her purse pocket and began hitting me on the head with it. Time has helped me understand her better. I finally realized her remark that I am “some loathsome vermin fit only for extermination” was said more out of compassion than anger. Let’s face it: she was always much brighter than me—wittier, more cultured, better educated. Why she is still working at Hooters is a mystery.
Idea for story: some beavers take over Carnegie Hall and create a super Queen coverband. (Strong theme. What will be the structure?”)
Good Lord, why am I so guilty? Is it because I hate my father? Hate is such a strong word, but I don’t know how to use a thesaurus anymore. The root of the problem in our relationship is probably “the veal-parmigiano incident.” Well, what was it doing in his wallet?! If I had listened to him, I would be selling number 1-foam fingers for a living. I can hear him now: “Be number one—that is everything.”
I remember his reaction when I told him I wanted to write. The only writing you’ll do is in collaboration with a nearsighted owl.” I still have no idea what he meant.
What a sad man! When my first play, A Cyst for Gus, was produced by the Lyceum, he attended opening night in tails and a gas mask.
Today I saw a red-and-yellow sunset and thought, How insignificant I am! Of course, I thought that yesterday too, and it rained. The universe is so vast and encompassing, I think I might learn to use a thesaurus again or perhaps a protractor, I dunno which one I’ll need next. Yes, so many thoughts and feelings…and yes there I was again…overcome with self-loathing and I contemplated suicide again—this time by inhaling next to a limburger cheese sandwich.