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Thursday, Feb. 03, 2005 / 6:33 p.m. ~In Which I Write Myself Into a Slight Depressed State~ Hey, hey, hey, what's the deal with Pringles? You can't eat them out of that damned can, you have to tilt the thing, and reaching in gets your fingers and/or hand all scuffy from the metal rim. It's an awkward experience altogether, really, but I made the extra effort because they're Wisconsin white cheddar flavor, and I am all about the white cheddar. Of course white cheddar is supposedly regular cheddar, only minus the added coloring, or so it was once explained to me, by someone in cheese. Someone in the business that is Cheese. I miss the Garlic Cheddar I used to buy at the Farmer's Market, those sandwiches I'd make with it and whatever 'cold cuts' I had on hand, including the infamous Garlic Bologna. Note to self: at some point, please shop for food, like to keep on hand, you know, groceries, and I do NOT mean cat food, though we are out, of the cat food, so don't forget. Litter too. Sorry, brief little note there. Well, well, well. Now that I have Interweb access in the cube again, or really for the first time in the new cube, and what is it anyway, how many cubes, cube number what, eight? We have no way of knowing, we have lost count quite completely, but I notice I spend a good bit of time checking email, and replying, and at the end of the day I wonder what I've been doing, how I've spent my day. I'm beginning not to care so very much. Really. A minute late, two minutes, in the morning, late coming back from lunch, and it's not that I'm not trying as I always have, but I no longer really care if I am late, if a minute goes by when I am missing something, and what could that be, the missed thing? Today I wandered anyway, internally, emotionally, and though I would wager my body was indeed planted firmly in my chair through most of this day, I'd also like to note that I was in no way actually 'there' for much of it. I was transported, back in time, forward in time, and all points in between, engaged in serious, and no doubt very healthy fantasy involving very real memories ironed on to my memory bank, pressed there like patches on jeans, and then sewn on for good measure. Those memories are stuck there, even if they are incomplete, and even if I'd like to do them all over, play them just a bit differently the next time, or find a way to create the next memories. And, I was hot and cold all day, one and then the other, sometimes simultaneously, and I wondered if going off the echinacea was a good idea after all. I hear the hack of the man who sits not far from me, and I think he always does it, he has a smoker's cough, and he won't last long, but what if it is a virus he carries, transports daily to work and back, trickling bits of it, dropping it on his constant trips, hands in pockets (this man is dead weight, I tell you, dead weight, throw him overboard!), past my cube to his work pal's cube. Over and over and over again, and each time I see him saunter there, just past me and back again, I want to say, "GO SIT DOWN!", but he is in the supervisory capacity, so this would not be good. Post-Wisconsin White Cheddar Pringles, post-thinking of that virus he carries like an old woman clutching her voluminous handbag filled with all manner of objects to cause Monty Hall to have a wet dream ("Let's Make a Deal"?), I am suddenly very spent, very exhausted, and worn, wan, logy, enervated. Is this the time to wonder once again if I've got 'something', the way I was once convinced I was HIV positive? AIDS, I had AIDS, I was certain. I miss my hypochondriachal days, and what happened to them anyway? Could it be, could it very well be, that today I took it all too far, that it got out of hand, that my rich life inside my head took me to a place I had no right to go? And could it be I need to back down, again, that this new and improved optimistic attitude is rather misplaced, and the previous me, all misanthropic and depressed and miserable, should reassert herself? How many 'me's have I, and can we all join as one, or is there an alpha me? I'm feeling uncomfortable, and I'm not sure it's the sweater. I think I need to 'get away', but that's not likely to happen. I mean, I need to leave the cats for a bit, leave the apartment for a bit, the dust, the litter, and the job, the job I hate and have to leave, bittersweet that, and the cold, this weather, this horrible, horrible weather, the sweaters, the piles of clothes all over my floor in my bedroom, never put back in the laundry room since the blower was fixed. This is awful horrible rambling on about nothing, and since it seems to be getting a bit worse, suffice to say that's about it for now. Clearly, I can make no effort with this. Cost of the War in Iraq
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