[astigmatic much?] pith.org content, daily-like
most recently

Sunday September 24, 2000, 01:57

I find myself sighing deeply (notably a much too sharp intake of air followed by a sustained exhale) and curling up in pain on my couch. Since quitting my job, I have been spending a lot of time in my apartment, often not leaving for days at a time, writing a lot and reading a lot more. In fact, the only times it seems like I leave these days is to go to the theatre or to go buy books (one of the unfortunate side affects of being unemployed is that it allows ample opportunity for me to go shopping). The pain stems from the decidedly not ergonomic nature of my desk chair and the fact that I can not find a keyboard that doesn't want to send me into fits of convusions after twenty minutes of use. This is the burden I must bear in my life.

I sit at my computer wearing my big jeans (rolled twice at the cuff to provide some weight to the pant leg as well as to prevent them from dragging along the ground, despite the fact that in doing so I am not wearing them the way "all the kids" are, that is, pants dragging along the ground picking up dirt, gravel and small children in their way). I usually do not wear a shirt because I am skinny enough that I can get away with it. I am sporting a bit of "extra padding" from not exercising at all but for the walking I often do to prevent having to pay to take the train, but despite this fact, I am not as overweight as one might expect from a computer person. My associations with the theatre do assist in my belief that I am attractive enough to not have to wear a shirt around my house. And the fact that nobody I know can see me.

If I am feeling particularly naughty, I will wear my collar (the choker that my neighbor found in her couch my freshman year which I have been wearing when I want to look tough or sexy). Without my shirt. Which means that it is just pants and collar. And underwear. Which is boring. So pants and collar. I will just let that image soak in for a minute, as it is fairly striking.

As I sit in front of my computer I periodically crack my wrists and rest them, realizing that if I don't I will be forced to wear braces again (on my arms, not my teeth) and that was not a fun period of my life. As I am taking the obligatory rest I will run my fingers through my hair, reminding myself that my hair is not short, not long as it was two weeks ago, and that it is still cute, which means that I am still cute. I also practice looking aloof, as this is an important part of my public persona and I want to make sure that I do not lose it. I would lose my identity if that were to happen.

I take a sip from the glass sitting at my side. It is Ocean Spray brand Cran-Rasberry juice, in a large, one gallon container. I buy my juice in bulk because I drink a lot of it. I drink a lot of juice because I don't know how to cook, and while a person can survive without food for several weeks, one will become dehydrated far sooner than that. I keep my body's thirst, as it were, for liquid sated with assorted juices and bottles of water. Note, this is not Bottled Water, but merely bottles of water filled from the tap and then placed in the refridgerator to chill. Local water, it could be called. Tap water is the more traditional term for it.

Juice, I realize, is good. Juice is very good, and I get up and pour myself another glass, realizing that I must go to the market (a term that sounds so much more traditional, and full of good values than "supermarket" or simply "store," conjuring up images of the local establishment with the proprietor misting his vegetables by hand and greeting everyone with a smile and a "howdy," even though i don't purchase produce with any regularity) very soon to replenish my supply of beverages. Juice is such an important, I soon realize, element of my life, that I must tell everyone about its power. Its potency. I run to my window where the trash men are emptying the dumpster in the alley behind my apartment building1.

I open the screen and shout down to them. "Juice," I yell, "is good." The appear to be caught up in their work, and I think fondly of men taking pride in a job well done, returning home in the evenings to their families and knowing that they did something good for the world, while contributing to the as of recently un-documented landfill problem in our country. They ignore me.

No matter. Undaunted I rush out to the hallway, banging on doors and spreading the good word about juice. I realize that I do not know any of my neighbors after eight months in this apartment and realize further that I will most likely not get to know them any better before my lease is up. This fact does not faze me one bit.

Out in the street, hands raised high in the air I look like a prize figher preparing for a bout. I thrust my fists up high shouting "Juice is good!" The motion is a welcome change from the typing and the reading I do all day. Reading is such strenuous an activity that I have been considering the possibility of writing to the World's Strongest Man commission and suggesting that they include the carpel-tunnel syndrome inducing Page Flip as an event in next year's competition. It would be an endurance challenge. I take a moment to crack my wrists, resting a moment to take in the cool autumn air. I am wearing a white t-shirt that has a neckline perfectly situated to expose the choker coller underneath, but just barely, so it acts more as a subtle accent accessory rather than a full in-your-face one. I am a subtle person.

To each person I see I announce that Juice is good! I am quite pleased with my message until I come across a young man wearing a black short-sleeved button shirt. He is holding a red, metal can and offeres me a sip. I taste, and am shocked. "What is this beverage?!" I demand of him. "It is certainly not juice!" It is soda, he tells me, and it will help me stay up later. I hand him back the beverage container, but he refuses to take it, claiming instead that I need it more than he does. I take his word for it.

Back at home, I perform various experiments before I learn that I can mask or satisfy my hunger with a combination of this Soda and a package of Premium brand Saltine crackers.

My life is nearly perfect at this moment.

1. Things begin to get strange at this point. Just go with it.

[ permanent link ]

[ email love | your love | consumer love ]


search the past

remember the past

    aug 04 05 06 08 09 11 12 15 17 22 26 30
    sep 01 03 07 12 20 28
    oct 04 14 18 22
    nov 02 07 12 19 25 26 27
    dec 12 15 18 28 31

    jan 02 06 11 12 18 29
    feb 03 10 14 17 21 23 28 29
    mar 05 06 20 22 25 26
    apr 02 05 06 08 09 10 12 13 17 20 21 24 25 28 29
    may 03 05 08 11 12 15 17 17b 18 18b 21 23 25 29 30 31
    jun 01 01b 03 06 07 08 10 13 14 16 18 21 23 25 30
    jul 03 06 09 10 13 16 26
    aug 02 03 04 08 10 17 21 25 29
    sep 06 07 12 13 18 24
    oct 06 11 12 19 30 31
    nov 08 11 22 26 30
    dec 01 10 14 21 30

    jan 01 09 14 16 30
    feb 11 15 20 22
    mar 06 08 09 21 25 30
    apr 01 04 05 09 13 18 23 24 25 28
    may 04 09 11 14 16 17 21 25 31
    jun 02 08 20 21 28 29
    jul 07 13 17 28
    aug 14 24 26
    sep 09 12 23 24
    oct 10 26 28 31
    nov 11 17 18 28 30
    dec 02 08 15 18 26

    jan 03 07 08 18 20 23
    feb 04 05 17 19 22
    mar 06 10 13 15 17
    apr 13 16 19 26
    may 03 13 16 21
    jun 08 15 21
    jul 03 05 10 18 24
    aug 03 18
    sep 11 20
    oct 03 05
    nov 10
    dec 30

    jan 19
    feb 04 14 27
    mar 10 23 31
    apr 11 15
    may 26
    jun 16 29
    aug 17
    sep 15
    oct 08
    nov 30
    dec 11 24 28

    jan 06 23 30
    feb 01 21
    mar 04 09
    apr 15
    may 02 10
    jul 03
    aug 02 16 30
    oct 04 17
    nov 28
    dec 28

    jan 03 24
    mar 24
    may 28
    aug 01 10
    sep 03
    oct 12 28
    dec 25

    jan 01 07 16
    feb 02 13 28
    mar 12 13
    apr 17

other things to look at

back home