Wednesday, March 30, 2011

I don’t know why but something in my right eyeball exploded. Maybe I got punched in the eye while I was sleeping. But I didn’t see it first thing in the morning when I put my make up on and that involves a lot of looking at my own eyeballs. Maybe I stuck a pen in my eye by accident and didn’t notice or react or feel intense pain at all when I stabbed my eyeball with a pen because, I don’t know, maybe my hair was on fire at the time so I wasn’t paying attention. I don’t know. All I know is at some point in the early morning when finally looking at myself in the bathroom mirror at work, I noticed a large portion of my eyeball was bloody.

I was like, wtf, and I leaned in and pulled my lower lid down and it was totally ew.

I let my lid pop back up and I turned my head this way and that and sort of checked out my new bloody eye in the mirror.

It looked pretty Fight Club and therefore, slightly bad ass. But what it really needed in order to have the full bad assness was some purple-black bruising. Some cheekbone swelling. Maybe a fresh slice crisping maroon along its thin raised ridge. Now THAT would’ve been something to give that mirror my FULL attention. Not just a partially bloody eyeball.

People ask me what happened and I’m like, about what? And they’re like, your bloody eyeball. And I’m like, oh. Yeah, I have no idea.

Oh well. It is and will remain a mystery.


In the meantime, I will continue listening to this Chemical Brothers song that has horses neighing throughout it. Yet another wtf.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

I’m watching the LA Marathon from a comfortable chair in my living room. It’s pouring rain outside. Some of the runners are cloaked in see-through plastic sheets. The rest are just getting wet. I am in pajamas. I have socks on. My feet are up and I am under a blanket. I am intermittently sipping from a warm cup of coffee.

I feel guilty somehow.

The two dudes leading the race are running like 4 minute something miles.

I run twelve minute miles.

I am like a grandma runner.

Yesterday I ran my strongest five miles thus far in my ongoing training for the San Francisco Bay to Breakers that I’ll run in May. I felt like an awesome.

It blows my mind that these runners are running 26 miles and crap.

It blows my mind that I’m thinking of doing the same thing come December.

Some of the runners are wearing garbage bags like shirts.

I just saw a little kid run by.

And a grandpa.

And a grandma

And a chunky person.

Now I feel super guilty.

That’s why I want to run a marathon. Because little kids can run marathons. And old people. And overweight people.

So why can’t I?

I would like to go into 2012, and the rest of my life, with the ability to say, “I ran a marathon.” That would be something I will be able to whip out for the rest of my life that basically says, “I’m better than you.” and I need all of those that I can get cuz I really don't have any so far.

Saturday, March 12, 2011

I have a purse that has petals. Black leather petals. When I swing the purse, the petals fan out like a flapper’s dress. The purse is falling apart. The petals are falling off. People find them. They find them in the car. They find them on the floor. They find them on the table, in the driveway, under the couch.

Every time they find one, they hold it up, a black circle, and ask, “What is this?” They hold it up high. They move it in an arc so everyone can see it so everyone can evaluate the black circle so they can try to identify it. To me, they look like a teacher at the front of a classroom, holding up a story book or a plastic skull and I feel like a student who knows the answer and who will raise their hand and who is anxious to shout the answer before being called upon.

In this case, the answer is always the same so I do not know why they keep asking it. I am tired of explaining it is a petal from my purse and then holding up the purse and showing it to them much the same way they showed me the petal. They always say, “Oh,” and nod and hand me the petal. I always wonder how they don’t know where the petal came from because I’ve had this purse for months now. It is a purse covered in black petals, therefore it is not usual. It is unusual. It is supposed to be noticed and therefore, remembered. If my purse was a wife it would be upset that its husband didn’t notice its new dress every goddamn day.

I always take the petals and I don’t know what to do with them. I can’t sew and if I pinned them on they’d eventually fall back off or I’d be stabbed. The petals stack up inside my purse. The outside of my purse is molting while the inside of my purse is choking with its feathers.

It seems ironic.

I feel like I am just going to keep using this purse until it can’t fly anymore and then I will throw it away. So cruel and hard-hearted, I think. But then I think, It’s just a purse, stupid and I feel better. I have to remember not to have emotional attachments to inanimate objects. I have a favorite coffee cup. I should use it less, just in case.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

I bloodied my big toe toenail.  The bead was glossy and red.  The prettiest red. 

Blood is so pretty under the right circumstances.

My gums bleed a lot these days.  I am blaming it on my new toothbrush. I pretend the bristles are made of wire.  I pretend I am in a Saw movie.  When I spit, it's spectacular.

Red.

Friday, March 4, 2011

i did the thing where i get ready for bed.  I put on the same pajamas as the night before, all crumpled and shoved into the third drawer down.  There are socks in there too.  The bottom of the socks are always brownish and i'm like, to myself, 'these aren't socks, they are how i clean my hardwood floors' and then i was like, 'it's awesome and gross how i am wearing these clothes for the fourth night in a row or something'.  then i put them on.  i love my own filth.

i bought a man a pack of sour patch kids tonight. I felt 'big pimpin'.  i was like, HERE IS YOUR BOX OF SOUR PATCH KIDS, I HOPE I WILL GET LUCKY LATER BECAUSE OF THIS PURCHASE.