Secret Pop

Feb 16, 2003

Full Moon. Dirty Something.

I am ashamed of how much I overdid it last night. I know I planned to. But the aftermath was brutal. I had a good show and received copious kind words from exiting audience members, which is always selfishly thrilling to me. Then I headed out, avec empty stomach, to poison myself. Which I did. I was having a great time right up until the time when I wasn't anymore. It must have been that last yucky creamsicle shot, I tell myself. But there's also the fact of my being on the verge of singlehandedly causing a vodka shortage. This girl needs a break.

I was grateful for sleep today. Although certain aquariums make far too much noise for my liking, and I kept finding myself being still but in a state of great tension. What fish needs that much air? Now, I've got driving to do and work to catch up on. And self-flagellation to get to. I have been away from home for a long stretch, and I can feel it. I want to go back to that previous state, when I wasn't always wondering what was coming next. I'm tired of all the surprises.

My little sister's dog got into a scuffle with a hideous opossum tonight. She appears to be all right. I have just grown to be very protective of her since that Thanksgiving a couple of years back when I took her out running with me and she was attacked by two big dogs. I cried the whole way home as I carried her, getting blood and fur all over my clothes and wondering why police cars kept driving by me uninterested. A few weeks ago, I took her for a walk, and a big dog came running after her, and I chased it away and scooped her up in my arms to make sure she was okay. I was in an adrenalized frenzy and on the verge of a panic attack for a few ghastly moments. I despise the accuracy of sense memory where fear and grief are involved. How easily it all comes rushing back. I would rather be assaulted by the neurochemistry of a sigh of satisfaction or a swell of sentiment or the sort of surprising gratitude that can't be voiced in words.

Beulah likes to watch Autopsy. I have noticed recently that even the discussion of death has some sort of dramatic effect on me. I get this sense of tragedy and loss and I feel immediately sad. I can feel tears welling up in my eyes just thinking about it.

I left the refuge of a friend's couch this morning and walked -- slightly shamefaced -- into the sunlight and the hubbub of a farmer's market. A girl was carrying a loaf of french bread and a bag of fresh vegetables. I liked her for it.

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