Doc Martin

Fear Not Drowning

Ultramundane.com

YOU'LL DANCE TO ANYTHING...

2001-03-24

I haven't been neglecting you, I promise, I've tried for three days to write something more than a Weblog entry. But every time I sit down to write the same words come out:

So tired. Trying to survive on 4 hours of sleep a night is not cutting it. But I simply cannot fall asleep earlier than this.

I've written that exact paragraph on at least three different occasions, at work and at home. Every time I realize I have nothing to follow it; there hasn't been much except the groggy going-to of work, the caffeinated surviving-of of work, the groggy late-night-coming-back-from of work, and the nightly caffeinated not-sleeping-despite-having-to-go-again-soon-for of work.

I need to track down the refund someone at the Rio Store promised me over the phone, that hasn't shown up on my VISA bill yet. Ten working days, she said. My biggest problem is that I don't remember how long it's been. Did I call last week? The week before? The week before that? The memory of my time has been a featureless landscape lately. Perhaps its time to do something to shock myself out of my complacency.

The Roommate has been all kinds of literate lately, impressing people in person with his wit and insight (and baked goods), reading and discussing everything from James Baldwin to Information Architecture. I find that I'm left sub-literate from my usual day at work. I managed to read through the Johnny the Homicidal Maniac anthology but am still on chapter three of the Book of the Subgenius. I'm not even trying to read anything intellectual anymore. I worry that my brain has atrophied to the point of no return.

I was envying the time he was able to spend reading the other day; of course, he recently wrote about not having the time to read like he used to. Say what? At least he can hold a book to his face and not have the letters move around. Didn't they used to stay in one place?

The Boyfriend has joined a gym (someone got him a membership for Christmas) and is working out a few times a week now. I'm not sure how I feel about this. Mostly because it makes me feel like even more of a lump than I did before. I'd like to push my weight back under 200 pounds. (...he says whilst snacking on potato chips.) But I do not want to change my diet, lifestyle, activity level or eating schedule to do it. I think my only options left, then, are getting the hell over it or amputation.

How much do you think a foot weighs, anyway?

Last night lying in bed, feeling my back hurt, and my wrist hurt, I contemplated going to a masseur today. But I don't know anyone who goes for massages, so the only way I knew of to find one was to look in the back of the B.A.R.. But because it's one of those newspapers, it's important to determine beforehand which kind of "massage" someone is really offering. I haven't decided if I really want to bother, or if I feel like that's a waste of my money. Then I remembered that I have a gift certificate to a foofy "Environmental Salon" for a particularly taxing job done in October. Perhaps I'll splurge on a massage there. Or a facial. Or, um, the..."Himalayan Rejuvenation Body Treatment"...Ok, maybe not.

Maybe I'll dye my hair blue. Actually I've always wanted to bleach my hair white and frost the tips with a light electric blue, inspired by a picture of Budgie from The Creatures. I know, that's not what his hair really did. I don't even know if it's physically possible to get the look I really want.

I still think about dying my hair black. Not that I keep it long enough to notice much color about it -- it's hardly styled at all. I think I fantasize about shaving it off as often as coloring it. I only experimented with hair color once, really, in college. I used a "washes out in a week" temporary hair color one night to go black. The next day we had an art critique outside on a cliff overlooking the beach near school, where we were supposed to fling our sculptures off the edge to be photographed in descent. Need I mention that it suddenly started raining? Rivulets of black dye washed down my face and stained my shirt; I skipped my next class and trudged back to the dorms, utterly humiliated, to shampoo myself a few times.

Now, of course, I wear only black, so there would only be the humiliation part.

And I'm used to that by now.

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