I think spellcheck has been hanging out with urban dictionary, because it’s a lot less fuckle than it used to be
I mean what the hack do we know about what’s going on behind the scenes? And it’s not only technology I’m talking about. Just ask my diaphragm what its been up to behind my back. That’s right, the little stinker turned on me and has been tucked up (too easy) under my ribcage all this time. My osteopath has been coaxing it down for a couple of weeks now and after the last treatment it seems to be not retreating and now I can finally – mostly anyway – b r e a t h e, and, more importantly, play ping-pong and curse simultaneously.
I am writing this from the quiet zone on the GO train and somebody just told me I was typing too loud
Once the shock wore off I decided maybe he’s right. I’ve never thought about it before but I guess I do get clicky, what with all the commotion in my head, but it didn’t cross my mind that my raucous typing would interfere with anyone’s sleep. Clearly, though, I woke this guy up. He’s just sitting there now, staring out the window, all sore and steely-eyed.
And it’s taking all I got to not tell him he’s brooding too loud
Today is my first day back at Plan B, a sticky Monday, and the air is so warm I think if somebody gives us a stir, we’ll all dissolve into the soup, but everyone on this train seems to know something I don’t, yet again, because there are umbrellas and jackets and sweaters and I hope I can still go for my work-walks, which are all that’s left of my fitness routine, which will start in full again tomorrow, which, as we all know, never comes.
I’d rather get my exercise with run-on sentences and/or chasing down errant, commas anyway while actively tracking down synonyms for the word which which seems to be mostly in vain
Know what I did last night? I went out just before midnight, which is something I don’t often do unless it’s to accompany Daisy into the backyard so she can pee before bed. She is sometimes afraid to go it alone, and since I remember the lonely and terrifying walks to the outhouses of my childhood, I get all sorry for her – but usually it’s a trick – and she flies into the shadows like a muppet and practically explodes from barking.
But last night I went out out. Sort of, anyway. I was just setting my alarm and thinking about work in the morning when it occurred to me, optimist that I am, that there were several unchecked lottery tickets stuck to the fridge and I grabbed them, threw a leash on an eye-rolling Daisy, and off we went, careening down the street.
By the time we got to Stop 17, I’d chosen my beneficiaries, rehearsed the phone calls, and decided exactly which of Lake Superior’s rocky shores we’d live on while we got the house rebuilt and the pool put in. Also the Ferris wheel
But instead, on the way back home I figured out what I’d wear to work today if anything still fits, that is, after that hum-dinger of a holiday I just had.
Also I compiled a list in my head of other things I could do during the day to keep my mind off the detoxing which will, according to my calculations, hit squarely – as in right between my eyeballs and back a bit – at ten o’clock when my body fully realizes it’s not going to get its Tequila Sunrise this morning. I will type and tread softly until it passes.
