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2005-01-26 While reading the emails and guestbook messages that accumulated in my absence, I discovered that many of you believed that I had not written an entry in a while because I was busy doing other things. Ha ha, oh my God! That is very funny. Let me assure you that I was not busy doing other things. I am a slattern. I am the girl who invented a catheter for people who are too lazy to roll out of bed and walk four steps to the bathroom. I didn’t invent the “Catheter for Working Moms on the Go (Who Might Actually Need Them, See Previous Entry)”; I invented the Casual Catheter. I have not written because I forgot, for a short while, how to speak English. As I recently wrote to a friend, I stopped taking all my psychiatric medicines for about a month starting at Thanksgiving, because I wanted to see if I would start pissing blue like Mad King George. It turned out a month was too long! It turned out eight hours was too long, actually. I became dangerously unbalanced immediately, and I never even pissed blue once. (Fuck Hollywood, with its glamorizations of mental illness. Mental illness=creative genius! Mental illness=boundless energy! Mental illness=blue urine!) That’s all right, though, because Tragedy Plus Time Equals Comedy. (I understand these comedy formulas fairly well. If I fall into an open sewer and die, that’s comedy. Because…if Mel Brooks sees me walk into a sewer and die, he’ll think that’s hilarious, and he’ll write a joke about it, and I’ll be preserved for posterity in The Producers: The Movie Musical Plus One Scene Where a Girl Falls into an Open Sewer and Dies; Hey, This is New York City, “Wacky” Things Happen.) Unfortunately, as I told this long-suffering friend, this decision resulted in my forgetting how to talk. A person would speak to me, and the lizard part of my brain would understand that I was supposed to respond, but because I hadn't actually properly processed what that person had said, I would fall into a panic and gibber something like, "Uh oh, uh oh, cabbages up two cents a pound, coupon time!" Which made me sound like the autistic daughter Star Jones “The Bigger the Gayness, the Thicker the Beard” Reynolds keeps locked in her basement and feeds scraps of ham, or one of the driving plot points in a Seventh Heaven Retard Awareness Special Episode. So I began to take my medications again, and the overwhelming desire to empty my head of its own brains (both physically and…metaphysically, I guess; forgive me, I am still not sitting comfortably astride the pony of our language) has somewhat abated. Unfortunately, a raging mania has set in. That is not okay! Would you like to know what else is not okay? When the aforementioned mania causes me to pull a rib muscle making four pounds of homemade french fries at six o’ clock in the morning. How did I pull a rib muscle making french fries at six in the morning? By opening the oven door with too grand a flourish, I imagine.
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