Thursday, February 1, 2018

one foot in front of the other

Do you ever oscillate between manic productivity and then days where you barely manage to do more than change the batteries in your vibrator? 

Neither do I. Because I am never lazy. At all. Like, ever. Nor do I own a vibrator that is battery operated. Double A's are so 1989 and not even environmentally friendly.   

Basically I have been quiet not because I'm lazy but because I changed jobs a few months ago and have been trembling at a frequency too rapid to effectively type as I focus all energies toward trying not to fuck up my life or someone else's. 

I thought I was doing ok in this respect until yesterday I tripped over the bathtub and probably broke my toe. I knew immediately the damage was going to be bad so I rapidly washed my important bits, grabbed a pack of peas from the freezer and plopped down on the bed with my right leg raised, not initially realizing that the pea pack was open to one corner and consequently dumped half the bag's contents all over my duvet, which then split between smashing into the white sheets and rolling down into the cracks of the bedframe as I jumped up to try and contain them. Mission aborted, the morning therein dedicated to hunting for rogue vegetable matter rather than nursing my limb.  I hobbled to work. At the end of the day I unwrapped my (very cute designer) shoes to reveal this beaut: 

Reminds me of the last time I walked straight into the wall whilst sober, which is  basically unforgivable for someone who identifies with being an adult, not that I claim access to this exclusive cohort. Double annoying that my gel pedicure from two days had also chipped off in one full piece from my pinky toe, unrelated to the injury but adding insult in any case. 

Tis the season where after a period unwavering myopic focus trying to survive (in a way that interrupts sleep), that herpetic gift that keeps on giving reappeared in my  right nostril, impeding my ability to breathe from one of my only three air holes, painfully crusting up my nares, and outfitting me with a massive and painful retroauricular lymph node just for the sake of reminding me that I have one. A retroauricular lymph node and herpes. Forever! But this is old news.  Just try typing "herpes" into the search bar of this blog and at least 7 hits will come up that all pertain to me. 

But otherwise, living in London is great! Tonight I am going to see the Ferryman in the West End. Theater and live music and art are regular parts of my life here and I'm grateful for that. I am also grateful to be able to afford ramen and kebabs, toilet paper, the massive electricity bill, that monumentally priced public transportation, and have a roof over my head. I am still in that same crap apartment which now has an industrial sized trash bin in the kitchen, which from its nascency has had a broken spring in the lid and therefore has to be kept closed by a lime green broken salt and pepper shaker. It's impressive how your muscle memory develops in response to these sorts of things. For instance, I know that to  simply toss away my used tea bag I have to reach out, remove the salt and pepper weight from the bin lid, physically lift the lid, THEN pick out my teabag from the mug THAT I HAVE LEFT ON THE COUNTER while I hold the lid open with my other hand.  It sounds easy but if you're standing over the bin with the mug in your right hand and the teabag in your left hand, you need an extra hand to take the salt/pepper shaker off. You have to plan ahead to throw your shit away in my house! It is good that I love to formulate lists and plan things. I have gotten used to this routine to the degree that when I'm in the presence of a normally functioning bin I get all disoriented the way you do when you usually drive a manual transmission vehicle and then switch to automatic. Your feet start tapping the ground like an overeager dancer with metal plates on their soles and sometimes you hit the gas like you would a stiff clutch and things go from copacetic to scary real quick. 

I have noticed some things about British people. Or maybe it's just Londoners I don't know. But I can't sort out why so many people in these parts go for runs with a backpack on. Can somebody please explain this to me? I have never seen a phenomenon quite like it. They are definitely not running contextually for something like the bus. I know because they have all their sporty gear on.  What exactly is in that backpack they all have? Its not thin like a camelback that supplies hands-free water. Its humped like a ninja turtle, full of unknown goods! I wonder, what could be in there, as well as where they are running from, or to?  I have also noticed that while I am admittedly charmed by the british accent, as a wretched stereotype, they are famous for being snobby when it comes to matters of proper etiquette, grammar, and lexicon. But then you pour some lager into their face holes and they start shouting obscenities, jumping out of the queue, and unabashedly peeing in public places. The city has even installed  outdoor, open public urinals in places like Soho. Basically just a wall where people can pee against so at least the act appears intentional and well conceived. Oh! and then when they speak they all almost invariably say things like "samwich" instead of sandwich, and "free" instead of three and "everyfing" instead of everything. I just don't know what to do about this heuristic break. I came here to become more like the Queen and instead am just finding it more and more acceptable to eat a Burger King on the underground after a night out on the lash. 

Thats enough for now, Im late for a 5pm gin and tonic in Picadilly and likely a tiny cucumber samwich. Had I planned ahead and not been temporarily equipped with a degenerate toe I'd stay a little longer and run there with my backpack. Maybe then I will start calling myself a Londoner. 


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