Update 11 AM: Argh–shall I wear my best, most formal suit? Or will that make me look affected? I don’t wanna look like I’m going to a petition the Supreme Court…and I don’t want to look like a 10-year-old dressing up for Church, either.
I guess I ought to wear what fits me best these days. Which is…nothing. It’s all too big.
This one suit–navy blue, pinstriped, purchased in San Francisco, cost a thousand bucks–was a gift to me when I graduated. I was in the best shape of my life. Now, the trousers are too big.
Well, this was what I wanted–and I got it. I EARNED it. And the price was very, very high.
Caveat Emptor, baby. Caveat fucking Emptor.
Sick sick sick
* * * * *
You know, it occurred to me this morning, while finishing the last of my Fiber 1 cereal (yes, I eat the cereal made for people in nursing homes and hospice…it is bland and low-calorie enough for me to be able to eat without wanting to die), that the stuff has the appearance and texture of Meow Mix cat food. Once, I spent the night in jail, and I remember that the breakfast cereal served to me closely resembled dry cat food (I declined to eat it, and gave it to my cellmate). I wonder if it was Fiber 1. If so, that would be blackly ironical.
Yesterday, I had one of the weirdest sexual experiences of my life. I know that I never get too explicit in my blog postings, but take my word for it, if I describe something as being “very weird,” that is saying a lot. This ain’t Miss Margo’s first rodeo. Weird is my stock in trade. To quote Hunter S. Thompson: “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.”
I have an appointment with the grad director of my program this afternoon. I must appear to be cogent, collected, and purposeful. While I would rather die than face the music right now, the fact is that my life is not going to change or get better until I commit to this. The choice is so clear that even my frazzled brain can see it: get the credential, or don’t. If I want it–and I do–I have to work with this wretched institution that I loathe so much it makes my hair bleed. I have this paper from a fortune cookie on my desk: Confucius say: if man want harvest, man must first shovel ton of shit.
Then I have to come home and make myself drag-queen feminine for a party at THE SUPERSTUDIO tonight. As you might infer from my tone, I am not in a festive mood. Whatever. Tap dance till your shoes smoke, kid.
I’d burn everything down, but depression has made me unmotivated.
Folks, you’re hearing it first: I’ve relapsed, spectacularly and completely. Wow, that was fast. My brain is all fucked up again and I am full of fear and loathing and I DO NOT WANT TO SPEAK TO ANOTHER HOMO SAPIEN EVER AGAIN!!!
Bleh! Now I have to go pick up my suit from the dry cleaner’s.