I am unused to working at this desktop unit. In the past week I have realized how spoiled I became with my laptop and the ability to retreat into bed when feeling unwell to continue to read or write; I certainly cannot do that with this monstrosity. My fingers, hands, wrists, and arms are unused to this sort of keyboard (that which requires longer finger stretches, harder strokes and no split board for ergogenics) and to the larger mouse with the stiff point-clicker; the pain sets in much faster again. I was astounded to find I can now only write for about ten minutes by hand before my fingers start to turn white(r) and the pain breaks through: pathetic.
This keyboard is so stiff that every keystroke resonates at a volume so loud that I am convinced the neighbors must be able to hear it; with every stroke I await the pounding of the neighborhood hipster Gestapo on my door, demanding to know what I am writing at 2am on a Saturday/Sunday — why am I not out proving my allegiance to a local waterhole? What is this drivel I sit at home with instead of drowning my youthful exuberance, pride and energy with an over-priced alcoholic beverage? The only answer I could give would be a tale so woeful that even Connor Oberst would openly weep in empathy. I would stand here in the dark, wearing nothing but my granny pants and an enormous diaper-pad, blood and coffee grounds ejaculating out of my girl-hole and occasionally dripping down my leg, look the Hipsterazi in his red eyes, and raising my head but lowering my voice, say, \”Today I spent three hours with my ex-boyfriend from seven years ago, tracing our sexual history back until we figured out that the pre-cancerous cells I had cut out of my cervix last week are probably directly related to the cervical biopsy said boy\’s girlfriend had to have last year. In other words, seven years ago, I gave it to him and now he\’s given it to her. Whereupon I suddenly found our plans for later in the evening canceled and now I am at home on a Saturday night.\”
Once the Hipsterazi haul me to a detainment center, a higher power will have to decide if it is the Sex Police or the Punctuation Police who will dictate the punishment. For which is the greater crime: ignorantly passing an STD seven years ago and only now realizing he may be affected, or that monstrosity of a run-on sentence (beginning with \”I would stand here…)? Seeing as we are all adults here now, I believe the greater crime to be that of knowingly committing the run-on sentence–and not showing the slightest bit of remorse in the process. As for remorse in the possible virus passing: boy and his girl were blasÃ© about having it until realizing I may–may, for it is not as though I am the only one to have ever been poked by his stick before, so her case could have come from someone to have come from after me, as I may not yet have been infected the last time we did any horizontal dancing. But now that I am a possible target for the finger to be pointed at, I am persona non grata. Fair enough, my friend, fair enough.
I sometimes forget that I have used the last three years to call for a roll call from my vagina of all her partners from the years 1999-2002, and to then kiss and make up with as many of the formerly enlisted as possible. \”Hi, remember me? Yeah, look, it turns out that while we were doing the forbidden dance I had HPV, so if any of your lovers end up with cervical, genital, anal, or oral cancer, feel free to blame me, k? Say hi to your mom for me, too. Ta!\” Having got through all that years ago, it is easy to otherwise forget the vaguely muted rage within you that cries, \”How could you do this to me and the ones I love?\” It is easy to just think about having got past the finger pointing stage, the blaming, the wondering, the guilt, and get to the part where I\’m sitting around with an ex-lover, drinking happy hour martinis and making cancer jokes that make the ones that were on Sex and the City and Weeds sound tame and tasteful in comparison. Dirty martinis being drunken by dirty reformed sluts with their pre-cancerous cervices deserve dirty, shameless, tasteless, self-deprecating humour.
If I hadn\’t learned to laugh at you, yours, me and mine, I would have killed us all (or at least just myself) by now. So wipe that look off your face, exie-McX, and don\’t cry for me, k? The truth is, I\’m not worth crying over until I\’m dead, and only then may you weep. And if you\’re going to shed tears at that point, please show some respect for me and wear a lot of non-waterproof mascara on that day. Bawl your heart out at my wake and give yourself massive raccoon eyes. Then throw your hungry body (you\’ll have been too depressed to have eaten for the past few days, of course) on top of my ?[I plan to be cremated so we\’ll have to come up with something other than my coffin] nearly perfect blow up doll replication of myself with even tits, and demand that they let you go with me. If you\’re going to mourn me, I demand you do it in true over-the-top style, complete with death wails. I may ask Jews and Gents alike to sit shiva out of respect. I may require that Dr. Maude remain sati. I may request the most completely ridiculous things and I can do so because I won\’t know if you don\’t follow through. But I do know this: you\’re mourning me to my living, breathing face, and that I can\’t stand for. Don\’t mourn me until my brain is dead, I\’m off life support, and rigor mortis has set in. My last wish is that someone make a joke about \’what the fuck did she last have to eat, gawd that is a brutal smell,\’ before they send my body down to the morgue for embalming. And then–and ONLY THEN–dear ex of mine, may you start to mourn me. Because right now, I AM STILL ALIVE, DAMMIT. Now excuse me while I piss-ejaculate some of this blood-urine-coffee grinds mixture onto your front lawn.
I will sleep with an easier conscience tonight.