Wednesday, January 23, 2008

Wed's Child (full of woe)

Now I feel really guilty for submitting that snide Heath Ledger sighting to Gawker Stalker two years ago. Everyone is shocked, shocked. Calls and emails started pouring in yesterday (mostly out) and even my dad called to commiserate. (Okay, so maybe that was actually the only call I received.)

I texted Slim, “Did you hear Heath Ledger died?!”
He wrote back, “Yes, but I'm not sure who that is.”
GK4's “OMG!!!” was far more satisfactory.

Have to stop going off my meds. I am feeling really low and it's kind of alarming. Would hate to get to the point again where I have to run stairs in the Flatiron Building for a quick Seratonin spike! I'm going to take two pills (inadvisable - in fact, proscribed) and take a walk. Scientologists would like the second part. (Do you think Christian Scientists resent the common disdain of meds, given that they're Hollywood crackpots, or do you suppose they're just glad to have the message out? Although I suppose if you don't believe in God's will/healing power, it's not really their message.)

Let's see if I can be funny.

No, I can't.

I have been very sour lately anyhow, making lots of sweeping condemnatory statements, like,

“Everyone knows The Decembrists are just Easy Listening for smug, 18-year-old pseudo-intellectuals.”

At Moishe's party, GK4 somehow arranged it such that he and I split the astronomical bill, a gift I can ill-afford right now. He further inflamed the situation by breaking into slurred, incomprehensible French, which never fails to incense me.

“A, that's not a language,” I snapped. “B, speaking gibberish won't diminish the gaping hole in my bank account!”

Good times. I'm guessing no one is really mourning the loss of my voice.

Yes, I still have laryngitis, and as such was not able to join in a speaker phone conversation last night, forcing Slim to read aloud notes like, “at this point the act of display takes up a lot of emotional & mental historical space - disadvantages of youth etc. etc,” which led to many long silences and considerable confusion.

I look awful, too. Waxen: check. Rat's nest: check. Vintage “Kentucky” baseball tee: check.

My despair will not allow me to have any oatmeal. Well, maybe it will.

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