Note to self:
Don’t eat in the dark. The remote control for the soundbar to my television is NOT a chocolate bar, no matter how much it may feel like one.
Book I just finished reading: The Spear Cuts Through Water, by Simon Jimenez.
Blood pressure today: 125/84.
Supper tonight: Cuban black bean soup.
Best music of the week: Bach’s French Suites, played by Glenn Gould.
Current toothpaste: Trader Joe’s Peppermint.
Guilty pleasures to binge-watch on HULU: Teen Wolf and Kyle XY.
Thoughts that kept me awake last night:
Why is the name ‘David’ pronounced with a long ‘a’ instead of a short one, as in ‘gravid?’ I need to remember to water the plants after I get up. If Yeats is right about love entering through the eyes, then how did Hugo fall in love with Terry, since Hugo’s blind? I should have Hugo talk about this in Chapter Two. Someone else said men fall in love through the eyes, and women through the ears—Why can’t I remember who said that? I swear to God I’m getting dementia. I need to pee again. Where’d the cat go? She used to sleep by my legs every night, but now she sleeps in the living room—I wonder if I accidentally kicked her off the bed sometime and now she doesn’t trust me? Don’t forget to take the pork shoulder out of the freezer and put it in the fridge so it will thaw enough to cook on Friday. Oh, shit, that freaking earworm of a song is back again: “Have another Nutter Butter peanut butter sandwich cookie…” Gaaaaa, MAKE IT STOP!!! I haven’t written a blog in a while. Why does my right knee hurt? That noise in the basement better not be a mouse. Why did I have that fourth glass of wine? I really need to pee.
Thoughts having nothing to do with anything:
My heart is Klingon.
Aside from a minuscule fracture in the fourth toe of my right foot, I’ve never broken a bone. Given that I’m a sixty-year-old klutz who regularly slips, trips, falls, bangs into walls, drinks immoderately, and pays little attention to my surroundings, I find this miraculous. Possible explanations for my relatively undamaged skeleton are:
- Dumb luck.
- A guardian angel with too much time on her hands.
- Wolverine DNA.
- Fate setting me up for an epic pratfall, like Wile E. Coyote vs. the steamroller.
- A magical force field surrounding my body, generated by nonstop navel-gazing.
All of the above are perfectly viable possibilities, of course, yet I believe the real credit lies elsewhere: I simply don’t have time to break bones because I’m having too much fun stomping the living shit out of my heart. Want a tough, scrappy, indomitable heart? Make it your bitch.
How does one do that, you ask?
- Feed it a steady diet of unrequited love.
- Never let it fall for someone who might actually treat it well.
- Confuse it with a barrage of one-night stands and awkward post-coital conversations.
- Give it enough affection to make it think happiness is possible, but never enough to make it feel secure.
- Force it to watch sappy romantic movies, thereby ensuring a sense of failure in its own relationships.
Basically, think of yourself as a Marine drill sergeant, and your heart as a promising-but-dopey recruit. Once you’ve broken its spirit you can rebuild.
Thought for the day:
Don’t put off doing laundry until the only clean outfit left is a t-shirt with underarm stains and a pair of sweatpants with a hole in the ass.