The Cruciverbalist Says Abracadabra

Victorian-Beauty-with-Fan-GraphicsFairy-893x1024I probably would be shit at poker.

It’s one of those negative, tear open your body and light it on fire sort of days.  Between the pains in my neck and what appears to be a genuine ear infection (amoxicillin is at the ready!), everything is driving me up the wall.

Two in a row to those damnable Cubs.  I didn’t see any Rockies fans wandering about when we were briefly in downtown today, I did see a number of Cubs fans which is the crux of my blood feud with them.  It’s set the tenor of the day.  You shouldn’t complain about other people’s happiness, but sometimes, when you do, it does remind you that your time would be better spent minding your own.

Scratch that.  I would be genius at poker.   I am about to dose up.  I will have cold water.  I wasn’t in love with him anyway.  In fact, I wished he was other than he was, which isn’t fair, however, it is entirely resolved when there is communication to resolve it.  Without it, we are allowed our pettiness.  The Queen and I need it to move ourselves on down the river.

We watched Inside Llewyn Davis.  I identified with it more than I should.  More than is, as I think on it now, warranted.  Neither the beginning nor the end, just what’s inside.  And he’s angry he’s been left behind, that who he is on his own not saleable, not friendly and not willing to bend, not long term.  Until he does and he realizes what a cost it is.  It’s one of those movies that sits with you, not unlike the ubiquitous orange kitty (who looks strikingly like one who lives here), and stares until you spin so fast internally you either get somewhere or fly right on out of your head.

My aunt sounds sturdy on the phone, secure, sensible, but I hear the thing that maybe isn’t there.   This sucks.  This creeping, crawling, unnecessary resurgence of the cancer.  I tell her I am not worried about her, but I am thinking about her.  She says she isn’t worried, either.  She’s done this before and she can do it again.  And that we will just keep coming over for dinners and she will give me the usual hugs where she squeezes my stuffing tight and tells me I am special.  Nothing will change.

Pizza gives you cancer.  Apples have carcinogens.  Sugar will make you go to hell.   You’re an asshole every time you move your lips. If I was good, I would sit in a smaller, whiter, IKEA-fied room and I would eat limes and listen to Joni Mitchell and transcend all my failed initiatives.

I just want to feel up for it and not behind the 8-ball and judged and lacking and disinterested and over it and grossed-out with little pink pricks stabbing at my eardrums until they ache all the way down my neck and while Mumford’s good for a start, it’s a only a couple songs.  While Game of Thrones is good for a bit of distraction, I’m a bit past focusing on that level of saga.  It’s a fabliau sort of day.  Gross, small, dirty, self-interested.

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