You know, I sound all terribly gloomy in these last few
posts, and that is not the case at all. Am I just happening to write things
down when I am in a foul mood, such as when I have just stubbed my toe in its
diamond shoe or my platinum pony has crapped way too much gold? That is very
likely the case, and it is so sad to see those moments—terrible, no-good, very
bad moments indeed, of course—crystallized for all time in an Internet medium,
when they are not the truth of my life at all.
And, having just pondered that sentence, I am compelled to
backspace and confess to you that they are entirely and in every way the truth
of my life, as much as the times when I’m out collecting butterflies and
tripping (probably literally) through grassy green meadows and trilling things
along the lines of fa la la and tweedle deedle dee! I am a moody person, I
guess. This does not make me special, I know. It feels, of course, like my
moods are special—that I am sensitive like a snowflake and deep like the ocean
and delicate like something which is extremely delicate and which I am not
allowed to touch or I will break it.
They are overwhelming to me, and they get recorded, and then
I get tired of this voice that’s always coming out of my head, all whine whine
whine and poor sad me and things are so terrible and I want to shake the girl
on the page and tell her to buck the hell up, bucko, because things are
sometimes bad but they’re not always so bad, and in fact, things are sometimes
downright goddamn awesome.
A day on the futon with a fat cat, glossy like a seal and
almost as big, with the noisiest, most ridiculous purr in the world. He rumbles
into his asthmatic, wheezing purr when I so much as place a finger on his head,
and how can the simple fact of another creature’s delight in your proximity not
completely charm you and make you the happiest person in the world? It would
feel all the more victorious because Fang is a cat and cats are not supposed to
be affectionate and because he is affectionate to me, that means I am the Cat
Whisperer and have powers far beyond that of mortal man! Except Fang is just
kind of stupid and also a dog in a cat suit, and in that way, easy like Sunday
My Christmas tree up, pink and sparkly and completely silly.
I love my Christmas tree. It is everything that is perfect, and that is
especially true because it’s got presents from K. sitting under it, looking
delicious. I shake them every once in a while, when I stop to admire my
beautiful tree, which glows with the very essence of the spirit of the
fundamental core of the soul of the holidays, and is also pink.
I didn’t buy pink jeans on Friday, though I was tempted. But,
facing being naked from the waist down after my last pair of pants gave up the
ghost and started sliding down my hips I did try on a thousand and fourteen
pairs. While I found that while some of them are not appropriate for me and
this time in my butt’s life, in some jeans I was bobbing my head and going eh?
Slammin’! Slammin’! I have a fine fine ass, for a totally reasonable sum. Thank
you, me, for this kindest of holiday gifts to yourself: the gift of a fabulous
ass. It is a Christmas miracle!
The nicest thing besides me. Why am I so nice? Because I have finished all my holiday shopping and I am quite satisfied, in general, with the results. For someone with
not all the money in the world as she had hoped, I was pretty slick, and I have
gotten everyone covered, and I think everyone will be happy, and I think I will
have not just not failed, but I will have succeeded in gifting happiness along
with material goods and services, and that is all I ever really ask. Well, for
that and for chocolate. And ponies. And chocolate ponies. Those are nice too.
And now it is getting late, and I am tired. But I have a
feather bed, and an electric blanket, and a cat, all waiting for me. And these
are all damn fine things. As long as none of them catch fire.