Wednesday, Apr. 09, 2003 / 1:28 p.m.

~Eating Hot Alpo~

There is a woman at work who spends her day going from office to office talking at people. She talks until she either exhausts herself, or the person at whom she is talking begs her to go away, politely, stating some reason he/she must extricate himself/herself from said talking at. The woman intermittently clears her throat, but it's along the lines of Felix Unger in "The Odd Couple", not a typical throat clearing sound.

Her accent is Minnesotan, a very distinctive accent, somewhat very nasal and annoying. She is interesting, with stories to tell, she sews her own clothes, she has a small frame with a pear shape, a huge ass and hips, has not had children, is in her 40s, is white, very white skin, married to a light skin black man who is in the Military. She is pro-war, pro-Military, pro-government, pro-kick ass, America, flag, rah, rah, rah. I avoid eye contact, because I know I will be stuck, being talked at. I'll want to jump in, I'll want to interject, but it will be useless. She will laugh at her own jokes, she will clear her throat, repeatedly, Felix Unger-like, and I will want to slither to the floor in a puddle of bodyless goo.

I had to recite a telephone number earlier, one digit at a time. "Wait, say it again, what was it, wait, one? Two? What was it?"

"24" was good last night. I love the ever-thickening plot. I can no longer imagine, however, that the events transpiring are actually supposed to be taking place in one 24 hour period. It must have been the hiatus, I'm lost in the weekly groove, it's not one day, it can't be, my suspension of disbelief has been suspended and I'm beginning to question everything.

I'm only three issues behind in Entertainment Weekly. Today I'm reading about "American Idol" contestants, and a man who once made a living impersonating JFK, until JFK was killed and his career was killed too.

I am alternately depressed, sad, disassociated, resolved, complacent and enslaved. When I was in high school, talking to friends, a favorite topic was 'what if we are already dead and in hell, how would we know?', or 'what if we're asleep and dreaming, how would we know?'. Sometimes I'm convinced of the former.

N and G want more from me, I must cease the neglect. The computer must see less of me, the sofa more, interspersed with time on the exercise machine. I hereby resolve to create more laps, and invite the furry ones to sit upon them, to pat them, the furry ones, and engage them in entertaining play activities. I resolve, hereby, to make their Golden Years shimmery with gold.

When Kukla talks she sounds angry, even when she is saying something nice. It's in the delivery, it's the cadence, it's the dialect, it's where she's from, the Southern town, the Delta town, they speak this way there, some of them. Her voice is heavy with it.

I have a mad desire to crawl into my bed and sleep for days. Or to eat out at a really good restaurant, to order too much food, to sit with plates of delicacies all around, eating for hours, drinking wine made from different grapes, white, red, champagne. Or to get on a train and traverse the Chinese countryside, stopping to eat freshly wokked stir frys, or soups made with whole beasts, Dim Sum in the bigger cities. I could lie in bed, curled up, and daydream until the dreams become night dreams, subconscious dreams, farther beneath the surface.

Something here smells like dog food. I keep smelling it, the canned kind, Alpo or something, like beastie innards, parts, feets and snouts, heated, gelled with fat and heated in a pot on the stove. I smell it almost every day, but I've yet to seek it out, find out who eats heated dog food in her cubicle. One day, before I storm out in fury and anger, I'll investigate. "Alright, WHO has the dog food?!"

I'm out of things to write, I am going to read now.

(I suppose being stalked could be considered flattering)

Cost of the War in Iraq
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