that's what she said

I’m so happy I can hardly breathe.

Of course, it could be that the vest I’m wearing is too tight.

And he’s cute, too. Damn.  Andrew Bird, “eyeoneye”

I think that means I need to go out shoe shopping now.  Isn’t that the universal design?  

Or am I supposed to eat ice cream?

Grading has muddled my philosophical thinking, apparently.

I just found out that one of my poems was featured yesterday on Verse Daily.  And my book’s “out of stock” on Amazon.com, creating either rampant desire for me or, conversely, frustrated disgust.

Time to drink wine in large amounts and treat my family somewhat cruelly.

Especially because their songs all sound the same AND all get stuck in my brain. And did I mention that their ability to write grammatically correct lyrics is compromised?

You know that icky fluttery eyelid thing you can get when you’re stressed out, usually for no reason that you can think of, except that you’ve got that icky fluttery eyelid thingee driving you out of your skull? Well right now I’ve got an icky muscle spasm on my jaw, right here, and I can’t figure out what’s driving me around the bend right now, except for this annoying fucking spasm.

ohmyeverlivinggodshitwhatsgoingonihavenoideafuckmesixwaystilsundayineedanewjob…

One kid submitted an essay that read as if this were his composition process:

1. remove brain with rusty spoon,

2.  blend on high,

3.  chug,

4.  vomit onto the page.

Did he bother to even proofread his puke?  No.  Because apparently that’s what the professor is for—to sort through the yak and make sense of it. 

(On the positive side, it appears that he did read portions of the play in question before this process.)

There are too many venues to check, write upon, respond to, and otherwise manage. I feel so freaking connected that I’m becoming horribly disconnected.

In fact, the other day, I was walking downstairs (in the dingy, depresso back stairway out of this building aptly named Boyle) and, out of the blue (or so it seemed) I thought: I want to quit my job. 

What?  Question mark question mark exclam exclam exclam.  I love my job!  Why would I even think that?  For a second? 

I might have a brain tumor, caused by excessive use of electronic devices.  Or maybe I just want to unplug for awhile, let the batteries run all the way down.

So I’m typing this simply to fill another one of these white boxes and to assure myself that I’m still alive and capable of thought and/or speech. 

Plus typing.  Don’t forget typing.

I think we’ve become incompatible with age.

Sitting down on my comfy chair here in my office, I managed to bang my left elbow into the corner of my desk.  It hurt like a BAMF squared — I had to rock back and forth in my comfy chair for half a minute, eyes squinched shut and various colorful swears crowding into the front part of my brain like a maddened torch mob.

Nearly 2 hours later, my elbow is still sore.  And my forearm is numb. And so is my palm. WTF?

Does this mean I’m getting older?  Or that I managed to inflict some real damage on myself?