spiral-bound.net

One Consciousness

Madison — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 05:35:23 +0000

Do my friends and acquaintances dream about me as often as I dream about them?

Bones

Madison — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 13:15:16 +0000

The side part is the best thing that ever happened to me.

Savant

Madison — Wed, 03 Mar 2010 14:37:58 +0000

The house across the street is having an equestrian competition. The horses are skittish. One of the girls hits hers in the head with a shovel. Accidentally. The horse bolts across the street and rips through the wall of my dining room, my hall closet, and my kitchen. It staggers into the backyard, streaming scarves and mittens. The grass is spotted with dog piss stains.

The horse crumples and dies. Everyone is rushing to take it away but I can’t find my camera. Its muscle fibers are hidden away without my attention. I decide to join the swim team.

Instead of laps, I sink to the bottom of the pool and stay there. This is the longest I have held my breath. I am happy. I do not touch the pool slime. Surfacing, I find that my arms have withered. I tread water and then wake up.

XXX

Madison — Sun, 28 Feb 2010 22:19:22 +0000

What would happen if you had a nip-slip at your own wake?

Kitsch

Madison — Tue, 23 Feb 2010 22:39:29 +0000

I love grocery store apple turnovers.

Going Forward in Reverse

Madison — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 15:06:33 +0000

I am ready to trade my dry, cracked skin and cold feet for open windows, drinks on the porch, and night swimming in the lake.

Eggshell Predictions

Madison — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 03:47:42 +0000

This week’s batch of hard boiled eggs did not peel well. Omen? Paranoia? Self-fulfilling prophecy? I think that I get to pick.

Today’s Conundrum

Madison — Sat, 20 Feb 2010 17:07:03 +0000

Does the Internet create hypochondriacs?

I’ll Take Both

Madison — Wed, 17 Feb 2010 14:47:58 +0000

The choice between cereal and oatmeal is more difficult than picking out an outfit.

Saint Valentine’s Day Carnage

Madison — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 16:04:56 +0000

I don’t usually paint my nails when they are this short. My sloppy self-manicure makes me feel like an unsuccessful child prostitute.

At dinner last night, I watched a man–who weighed around four hundred pounds–eat pâté. Dissatisfied with the supplied bread accompaniments of hummus and pâté, he and his partner had earlier asked for butter and oil, respectively.

I stared as he spread a large scoop of pâté onto a slice of bread–apparently having decided that he liked it–and then applied a liberal two tablespoons of butter on top of the pâté. My mouth was agape. I expected him to drop dead at the table.

The vicarious tightening of my arteries was somewhat alleviated by my new favorite drink, called The Mistress. I must learn how to make it. It contained some mixture of vodka, peach schnapps, lemon juice, champagne, cranberry juice, and sweet & sour mix, with a sugar rim. I had two and will never feel pressured to drink wine at a nice restaurant with a full bar again.

When one orders a $70 rib eye for two and has the leftovers wrapped up to bring home, it is unwise to forget the package on the restaurant table. One’s mouth will water at its perfect, distant memory the next morning.

I have discovered a new level of delight this morning, forgotten rib eye and mild hangover aside. I called in sick to work to attain a three-day weekend like everyone else, showered, and then got back into my pajamas. Excellent.

Let the week begin.