I am finding it increasingly difficult to talk these days. Not to actually utter words, not to push air through vocal cords, not even to be grammatical (although still split infinitives).
I just don’t know what to say.
This emptiness comes over me in cycles, and I feel like everything I have to offer, conversation-wise, is shallow and boring. I hear myself blathering on about topics others can’t possibly want to know about, but I feel bound to fill the empty space.
I feel bound to write this entry. To establish that I am, indeed, just fine, and even rather cheerful sometimes.
And that I’m starting to talk again. In snippets, in jingles, in fast-food happy-meals, but at least I’m talking, right?
Last week, in dreams, I had a parade of ex-loves all reject me one by one, culminating in the ultimate rejection: Chad dumping me. Gee, I don’t know about this dream analysis stuff, but I think I’m afraid of rejection.
I could be wrong.
I now know more than I ever thought I wanted to know about Finland. As it turns out, I want to learn more. I have an e-pal (o, look at trendygrrl, “e-pal”) who is not Finnish, but Irish, and also speaks German and Dutch and is taking Finnish classes.
Yes, he’s going to Finnishing school.
Lara had her baby three months early. A little girl ó and I do mean “little,” one pound, nine ounces ó whom I’ll call “Beelet” for now since I don’t know if Lara and Wallace have named her yet. (Bee for part of their last name, not for the insect.) We got the message after arriving home from the mall, and while continuing to clean the bedroom, I waited for Lara to call back with the Beelet update.
This morning, Lara called, and Beelet is fine. Lara had to have an emergency c-section because Beelet wasn’t getting enough food and air from the umbilical cord and placenta, and wasn’t going to grow anymore. They’re both in the hospital; Lara for a few more days, and Beelet for an undetermined amount of time yet. I know Lara minds being stuck in the hospital, but it can’t be all bad. I mean, she presses a button, she gets drugs. How bad could it be?
Hopefully, I’ll get enough time off work soon to make a two-day trip to see Lara and this niece of mine.
Houston, we have a bedroom set.
And not just any bedroom set, nooooo. The bedroom set. Of course, I am hopeless when it comes to describing things, colourwise, but I’ll give it a shot.
Before: One mattress and one boxspring (size: full) on the floor. One glass-covered bamboo-lookin’ coffeetable as nightstand. One behemoth of a chest of drawers. One squishy teal chair that served as my hamper. One bamboo rocker, missing one pillow because Zen ate it. No shit, she ate it. Served as Chad’s hamper. One quintessential twentysomething halogen floorlamp. You know the one.
After: One glorious dark reddish-brown wood bedframe (size: queen), with headboard and the anti-headboard. What is that, footboard? Baseboard? Down-there-board. Two nightstands. Real ones. One dresser, with umpteen drawers and a big mirror. One chest of drawers, which will possibly replace aforementioned behemoth. One quintessential twentysomething halogen floorlamp. We couldn’t get rid of it; they’d kick us out of the twentysomething club.
We already had some queen-sized bedthings from our wedding stash, but yesterday we made a trip to the mall to buy all new pillows: two standard, two queen, and two Eurosquares. Now we can be Eurotrash! While we sleep! (They’re just big square pillows. I don’t know what the Euro’s for.)
I know I’m inordinately psyched about bedroom furnishings, but that’s me. If I’m going to spend so many hours having fucked-up dreams, I’m going to do it in a snazzy bedroom. And of course, there’s the usual bedroom-type activity.
Origami. What the hell were you thinking?
Speaking of hell: seeing “What Dreams May Come” was the metaphorical equivalent of driving a pike of molten glass through my chest, extracting my heart with a DirtDevil HandVac, dipping the heart in chilled sugar-water, and leaving it outside a six-foot-high anthill.
It was pretty, though.
I am now on 100mg of Zoloft and back on the Klonopin to sleep. What this means is that my two operating modes are hyperactive and asleep.
The downside: lack of short-term memory. really funky dreams. limb-jiggling. lack of short-term memory.
The upside: I can be outstandingly weird and then say, “Hey, it’s the meds!” Although I don’t do that. Okay, I do. But only sometimes.
O, and I can’t forget the most bizarre tidbit that’s happened in the past few weeks: a patron farted at me. I was turning off computers in the library several nights ago, which are arranged in “pods” or circular desks of six terminals each. She was seated at one of the computers in the pod I was shutting down, but I had no plans to shut her computer off while she was still working on it. As I neared her ó mind you, this is still at a distance of ten or twelve feet ó she gave me the dirtiest look, stood up, still looking at me, and farted audibly. Then stomped off. Which left me standing there, utterly confused as to the response that sort of action warrants in a normal social setting. Do I say, “Bless you?” Do I say, “Mm, nice vintage?” I blinked a few times and resumed turning off the computers as the eau de funky butt hung in the air.
And they call this an easy job.
I wore out Flannery, my PalmPilot O’ Doom, by playing too much Mahjongg Solitaire. In doing so, I’ve realized that I am not satisfied by winning a game here and there; I have to win it consistently to feel good about myself. I haven’t discovered the strategy to this game yet, so sometimes I’ll go outside to have a cigarette and play Mahjongg Solitaire, and some twenty minutes later notice that I haven’t even taken one drag.
Don’t forget the jiggling. So I try to balance this column of ash until I can deposit it somewhere, and I just get it all over myself instead. I look like an extra on the set of “Volcano” before I remember to go back inside.
For someone who hasn’t talked very much lately, I seem to be doing a bang-up job tonight. Here’s hoping it lasts.