My Cold Mountain

Another blasted hour left at work. It's at least 10 degrees warmer on the other side of the neuroscience institute. Why was I put here? Put the girl with no circulation in the coldest room must be the first rule in the book. Every bedroom I've called mine has been the coldest room in the house.

Earlier I walked into the space behind the reception area, looking for a fax that may have come for me. Usually people mumble good morning or I get a side glance, or nothing. I guess I create my own reality: where I give little in social interaction, I get little. I offer quiet passing hellos to the majority here. Reverse: Do et des, hospital friends. This time three people, and two of them twice and noticeably, used my name when I walked in. It felt new and strange as if we'd been chummy for a fair time. I was taken aback but went along with it. I wondered what caused it. I liked it. Had they heard I'd driven here in a new car and that made me a more attractive associate? It couldn't have been the bags under my eyes or my ruddy, overtired complexion. Usually, when you feel good you look good and people are strongly drawn to you. That's what it felt like when the ladies used my name again and again, except let me assert that today I am not a hot ticket, hardly a beacon of any kind. Bags, ruddy face, oily hair. I am sleepy and achingly desirous of the outdoors. Like Will Oldham I will fuck a mountain when I leave this place, while my new car is watching. I guess I don't need to know why. For any of the above.

I try to occupy the time productively. But the hours! The hours! I keep shifting and forgetting where I am until a bang outside the door brings me back. My thoughts right now are becoming dumber and I haven't even given birth yet. As I'm signing off I'd like you all to feel my ice-hands curl around your necks.