Tag Archives: foreshadowing

Shut your suck hole

I officially gots nothing. Mr. H said “well, don’t post until you have something.” But that defeats the entire purpose of the internet! My language and smartsing skills have painfully deteriorated. Know what’s in my head? A pastiche of OMG OMG, look at that dog, somebody feed me. Do I feel like a fraud when anyone thinks I do a good job at anything? Yes. Is it good to allow that out on a page unchecked? Hell, hell no. I once knew how to punctuate and write without run-on sentences. I still do, honestly, but the problem is that I’m lazy as crap. And the internet allows me to splatter unedited offal every which-a-way. I don’t even fucking spellcheck. This is bad, bad, bad. But then again, reading anything well-written on the internet annoys the crap out of me too, like the writer in question is just showing off. If I want sensitive and thoughtful, I’ll go get a damn Jonathan Lethem book and eat a damn scone at the bookstore while I am doing that.

I have this sense of impending doom like you wouldn’t believe. If the situation allowed, I would stay under the duvet all day and all night, only emerging for pasta and more of that $8 wine I like so much. Everything is post post post post everything else. McSweeney’s and the internet, I hate you so much. I hate you, cheeky advertising copy. Driving in the car is so bad. Going to the store is so bad. Requiring chemicals to think normal things are actually OK: so bad. I go back and forth on that one. Rationally, I know existentialism is sneaking back up on me because I cut the amount of happy chemicals in my body. And blah blah, a diabetic isn’t a bad person because he has to take insulin. A diabetic is a bad person because he cheats on his girlfriend! Or because he never finishes anything he starts and then complains about it. Shit, I am that diabetic. One day I will write a book called Lackluster Plans Started in Fits of Enthusiasm. OR NOT. Why’d Mom have to eat all that lead paint while gestating?

It’s Thursday

I thought it was Wednesday, I had to check! Being a woman of leisure is not all it’s cracked up to be. First, I haven’t encountered any actual leisure yet. Instead, I’m mired somewhere else entirely. Oh right, Dracut, Massachusetts. I keep telling myself it would be better if a) I weren’t working on a million piddly, stressful freelance jobs, and b) I weren’t living out of suitcases (more like off piles on the floor), and c) I weren’t still secreting ghee in my lungs. Also, since I “work at home,” everyone assumes I am doing nothing all day. So I scrabble around and prepare dinner for four, like a proper hausfrau. My revenge? Lots of roughage. My poor victims run from the table, groaning, filled to the gills with brown rice and broccoli.

Also, I now know that I definitely couldn’t stay home with a baby, although I suppose a baby would be more interactive than the cat. Even the cat is depressed; she deposits herself in the chair closest to the radiator and lolls there all day, not moving a muscle, not even for mousie.

So my question is: at what point do I give up and take off for the Mexican Riviera? Do advise.