12.Oct.2004

the biogenetic law of my simple exhaustion

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allegiance

I'm impressed.

I go moving through the ether and you all still insist on sitting in my textual living room, imbibing my green tea while nonchalantly flipping through my brain's picture-book.

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I returned from the hospital fatigued and dark-circle-eyed. Fever-patients' rooms are kept at ostensible sub-zero temperatures, and I have the central nervous system of an anorexic heroin junkie. It was impossible to become warm.

I rescheduled my therapy appointment predicated on my doctor's sheer inability to stop time. When I signed in at barely two this afternoon, she leaned across the counter and aimed her mouth in the direction of my ear, "Michelle, I'm running a little behind today."

I waited for an hour, and, via notifying the receptionist, returned to the hospital in a three-minute drive spent greedily sucking on a recessed-filtered cigarette.

Now I am home and trading skins with raccoons, remembering hard, Minnesotan nights and bottles of Stolichnaya. I've successfully divested myself of my wool sweater and silver jewelry, and I yearn not for a northern evening's reproduction.

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You may have noticed things have been altered, though the metamorphosis is thin. I'm decidedly very normal and tired, but I wanted to check on you to let you know there are piles of guacamole in the fridge, sweethearts.

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time & machine