Cold Extremities, or Today Is Ridiculous
Over snow, I’ve made it to work and everyone is talking about
1. how they made it to work,
2. how much snow they got in their town,
3. and how they need to get better boots.
Sometimes I become weary of this sort of predictable chattering.
On my way here, a woman in a black car, dark hair, whose face turned more tightly into the shape and contour of an asshole the longer she drove behind me, clearly angry, rode the ass of my car for miles until we hit a T in the road, where we turned off in opposite directions. Excuse me, the sky dumped snow on us over the weekend and I’m trying to avoid fishtailing or sliding off the road, fuck off.
This morning, while I was buying coffee in the hospital’s café, I felt irritated by women who buy a small cup of coffee, often decaf, and put into it a packet of Sweet ‘n’ Low and a swallow of skim milk. This kind can be spotted from afar. Usually they are skinny to the point of grossly delicate, wear a safe hairstyle held solid into place by chemical spray, and bear a distinct sort of neurosis that causes their head to bobble lightly. I know, I shouldn’t judge, and I rarely do. I can honestly say I heed the “to each his own” way. In the end I don’t really care what these women do with their coffee; it doesn’t affect me any, and if the inanity of it pleases them then so be it. Every time I open a can of diet soda, which is not all that often, someone says something about my body and how I don’t need the diet drink, and every sigh time I tell them I don’t like the sugary film regular soda leaves in my mouth. Every time, whatever. While I stand at the counter capping a tall cup of the stuff stark black, or dumping in the real-live sugar and thick half-and-half, I am perversely compelled to shake these decaf, sweet ‘n’ skim women out of their tightly wound watches. “Do you like sugar?” I will ask. “Then eat it,” I will say. “Live, why don’t you.” And then I will look in the mirror and convince myself at long last to sing and dance in public.
***
The day's gone awry. It's in the air: My mom, whom I called this morning and forgetful of her day off woke her up after I couldn't get her last night after she'd called twice worried the snow had murdered us all, has a terrible headache and cramps. And my chronic neck pain has returned. People in the hallway outside my office are talking badly and upsetedly about other people in the office. In addition, I just heard a voice in the hallway say the hospital's computer system will be down for the rest of the day. Just now can I access the internet as long as it doesn't involve the hospital. I was in the middle of a few things at once when I received a confusing phone call from the secretary of an author of an accepted article, and when all the programs and files I was using shut down, which I needed to deal with her problem. The fax machine, which ran empty late last Friday afteroon, no new ink cartridge in sight, keeps beeping, wanting to receive a fax, but it can't. A horny sort of frustration. When the mothership ails, the world ails with her, except for Zeus who can and will fuck anything.
I think I may have Raynaud's Disease. Or Raynaud's Phenomenon.
1. how they made it to work,
2. how much snow they got in their town,
3. and how they need to get better boots.
Sometimes I become weary of this sort of predictable chattering.
On my way here, a woman in a black car, dark hair, whose face turned more tightly into the shape and contour of an asshole the longer she drove behind me, clearly angry, rode the ass of my car for miles until we hit a T in the road, where we turned off in opposite directions. Excuse me, the sky dumped snow on us over the weekend and I’m trying to avoid fishtailing or sliding off the road, fuck off.
This morning, while I was buying coffee in the hospital’s café, I felt irritated by women who buy a small cup of coffee, often decaf, and put into it a packet of Sweet ‘n’ Low and a swallow of skim milk. This kind can be spotted from afar. Usually they are skinny to the point of grossly delicate, wear a safe hairstyle held solid into place by chemical spray, and bear a distinct sort of neurosis that causes their head to bobble lightly. I know, I shouldn’t judge, and I rarely do. I can honestly say I heed the “to each his own” way. In the end I don’t really care what these women do with their coffee; it doesn’t affect me any, and if the inanity of it pleases them then so be it. Every time I open a can of diet soda, which is not all that often, someone says something about my body and how I don’t need the diet drink, and every sigh time I tell them I don’t like the sugary film regular soda leaves in my mouth. Every time, whatever. While I stand at the counter capping a tall cup of the stuff stark black, or dumping in the real-live sugar and thick half-and-half, I am perversely compelled to shake these decaf, sweet ‘n’ skim women out of their tightly wound watches. “Do you like sugar?” I will ask. “Then eat it,” I will say. “Live, why don’t you.” And then I will look in the mirror and convince myself at long last to sing and dance in public.
***
The day's gone awry. It's in the air: My mom, whom I called this morning and forgetful of her day off woke her up after I couldn't get her last night after she'd called twice worried the snow had murdered us all, has a terrible headache and cramps. And my chronic neck pain has returned. People in the hallway outside my office are talking badly and upsetedly about other people in the office. In addition, I just heard a voice in the hallway say the hospital's computer system will be down for the rest of the day. Just now can I access the internet as long as it doesn't involve the hospital. I was in the middle of a few things at once when I received a confusing phone call from the secretary of an author of an accepted article, and when all the programs and files I was using shut down, which I needed to deal with her problem. The fax machine, which ran empty late last Friday afteroon, no new ink cartridge in sight, keeps beeping, wanting to receive a fax, but it can't. A horny sort of frustration. When the mothership ails, the world ails with her, except for Zeus who can and will fuck anything.
I think I may have Raynaud's Disease. Or Raynaud's Phenomenon.
1 Comments:
Would you prefer "Hot enough fer ya?"
Post a Comment
<< Home