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Monday, Mar. 01, 2004 / 8:29 p.m. ~Wine Is Good~ Perhaps I should begin by stating that wine is good. I never meant to be such a teetotaler, and I'm not completely sure the origin of my distaste for alcoholics, but alcohol is good, in small doses. In fact, everything, pick a thing, is good in small doses. Okay, maybe not torture, nor abuse, nor pedophilia, nor animal neglect, nor drilling for oil in national wildlife refuges, okay, fine, never mind, I have no idea what I'm talking about. Starting over. I had a bad day. And so many songs are coming to mind it's not even close to being funny, yet it is amusing. First was Edie Brickell and New Bohemians, "Nothing", "...Did you have a bad day?... Are you mad at me?... let it show, don't tell me nothing... I don't wanna know...", ah, I'm going by memory here. There was another earlier, when I was making the potato salad, before I overcooked the potatoes (it doesn't take very long to steam cubed new potatoes, dammit), "At this moment, you should be with us, feeling like we do, like you'd love to, but never will again..." Jane's Addiction, that one. I prefer this part of me, the inebriated part, or the slightly so, or the slightly altered, not the usual, uptight, tense, worried, anxious, depressed, day to day caught up in the maelstrom part. There's a whole other world out there that is based on physical sensation and sensory pleasure, and that part of me that's relaxed just enough to feel it all is my favorite part. I need to buy more wine, keep it stocked always, or have a cocktail when I come home. There's a reason for happy hour, there's a reason for the evening highball. Working for a living sucks, and office work sucks harder, and my job sucks giant balls, or big huge eggs, or I don't even know the appropriate slangage. Right now I won't even mention it except to say, What, we're not supposed to STAND IN OUR CUBICLES?!!! We had too many meetings today. There, will that suffice? This is more than "Calgon, TAKE ME AWAY!" territory here. This is Help Me, someone, please, Help Me. I got an email a couple days ago, from Cirque du Soleil, telling me that there will soon be job opportunities here, to work with/for them, limited of course, mais bien sur, mais... peut etre... Ah, but my font lacks the appropriate little symbols on top of the letters there, but I am fantasizing about joining the circus, running away for good, drinking wine from jelly jars, smoking filterless cigarettes, and stretching my limbs so I can approximate the little contortionist girls, just because. Fall in lust with a juggler, or some such. Fantasy is the only escape right now, because reality just sucks too much. Oh, could be worse. And loved the segment on CBS' news this evening, the heavy heavy, nay, heavy snow in South Dakota, the one old gent saying he thinks they're being punished, surely they have done something bad, a giant collective big bad thing to have to dig their houses out of the snow, to fall off roofs and not get hurt, it's snow, all the time, everywhere. I could be digging ditches. I could have a pregnant wife and four small girls to feed, and I could slice chicken's necks all day, twist off their wings and legs, or I could dig those ditches, trenches even, or I could lay tar upon rooftops, in the cold, in the snow, or I could stoke the furnaces of Hell, just for example. Being told we cannot stand in our cubicles is not the end of the world, and I've been there so long we all know I'll never leave, and my hair has slowly turned gray, I saw a huge patch of it in the mirror this morning, and I almost started crying. I am getting old, and gray, and I have nothing, I'm one of those who'll die alone, and they'll come in here and say, "She was lying on the floor, and there were two cats beside her, it was so sad, the cats were out of food and were licking her fingers, they were so hungry. Damn place was dusty as hell too, didn't this chick ever clean?" Sad, sad, sad. Maybe I could alternate between shoveling snow off roofs, or is it rooves?, to stoking the furnaces in Hell, there must be more than one furnace, right?, to laying tar on roofs, rooves. And then I could dig some thirty foot trenches, and maybe pick up trash along the highway too, maybe sweat in the hot Summer sun, maybe saying, "Takin' it off, Boss!" every time I want to remove my shirt, just like in "Cool Hand Luke". It's not that bad. It wasn't that bad, it's just the comparison, you know, between today and lying around on the sofa for two days with a couple cats, feeling ookey. It was just hard, that's all, it was just a bad day, that's all, people have them. It's over, almost completely, and though I feel nearly ready to crawl into bed now, before 9:00, I'm drinking some wine, I made a killer potato salad, with overcooked potatoes, and "The Simpsons" really cracked me up, the one liners tonight were SO funny, and the windows are open, it's still 68 degrees outside, fahrenheit, and it's March now, so it's going to be Spring soon, and though my birthday is just about a month away, and I am feeling really ugly and old, we'll forget that part and just concentrate on how much better everything is going to be. And how I'm going to join the circus and fall in lust with a juggler and stretch my limbs to approximate those little contortionist girls, and we'll drink wine from jelly jars, and smoke filterless cigarettes, and life will be grand. Cost of the War in Iraq
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