Are there words to describe the existential slap in the face that is one’s doctor fishing around up one's snatch while one discusses one's professional details and eventual plans to breed? I don’t find pap smears particularly uncomfortable – just a bizarre reminder of the parts we humans choose to play in a ridiculous and chaotic universe.
The heat wave is over – outside feels reasonable – but my temperature is becoming more profound. I can tell this because I, who never gets songs stuck in her head, has that goddamn Wilco single is stuck in my head, where it’s been intermittently for more than 48 hours. I don’t have a problem with Wilco, in fact I’m looking forward to seeing them at Bluesfest in July, but by the kazillionth time you hear “I’m the man who loves you” and that fucking fake brass line, it sounds flat, sarcastic and emasculated to the degree that you could throttle.
I’m taking advantage of my indisposition to watch the rest of Deadwood. By the time you hear from me again, I will be a free woman. Much like Alma Garrett managed to shake off her laudanum addiction in one episode, I will detoxify myself of this obsession in one sickday.