Machinations

I know.

I promised to stop writing entries like this.

Especially in light of the fact the riffing on the goings on of celebutantes and infotainers is so damn fun. I.E.:

Brit'nKev (exactly how is it that the man is so damn fertile? I mean really, this man is apparently the walking - even if it is with his knuckles dragging on the ground - solution to IVF. The quality of the genetic material, dubious, but the chances of getting knocked up, excellent. Sounds like the Magic 8 Ball of procreation),

the latest celebrity vacation destination - "an undisclosed rehab facility" (Billy Joel out, Joaquin Phoenix in, Whitney Houston and Pat O'Brien still staying put while their publicists try to come up with new excuses for the ridiculous things their clients say once such clients get out of rehab and are supposedly off the hooch. Looks like WH and PO's Power Girls aren't going to be able to reply on a "no comment" and a knowing shrug of the shoulders anymore. "Crack is Wack" will have to be explained.),

the Power giRls (Could Lizzie Grubman possibly be any more unattractive? She is Steve Buscemi with lesser skin pigment and long blonde hair. And why, oh why, does she have her own show? I know it is cool to give parolees who have paid their debt to society air-time these days - Martha, Martha, Martha - but I thought we were limiting that policy to white collar criminals. Lizzie is not so far removed from her eponymous predecessor in the heinousness of her crimes against humanity. Sure, Ms. Borden hacked her parents up with an axe and that is, well, not good form. Really. But Ms. Grubman ran a bunch of unsuspecting people over with her SUV. On purpose. Because they didn't get out of the way. That no one died is just because in her 4 apple-martini double-vision stupor, she didn't know which number came after one and so went with her first choice - thankfully the phantom image of the fabulous people. Hamptons + Mercedes SUV = Vehicular Assault is okay? I don't think so. So I am setting my foot down on this one. I will only watch the show every other week. And I won't watch the inevitable marathon on Sundays. No matter how hungover I am. I swear.)

However, I need to take a brief pause here for a public service announcement. Well, actually, more like a personal service announcement to the public (think an episode of Oprah, but with fewer tears and neither any free loot nor any "You go, girl!"'s):

I have said this before. I will, surely, say it again. But I am saying it now, as succinctly as I possibly can, in order to get my head around it and find an immediate solution:

I feel bad. Not really as in "I feel sad" and not really as in "I feel sick." It is more like a putrefacted cocktail of the two. I am so tired, I drag. I have that "on the cusp of being ill" feeling all the time. The sneeze that never comes to the fruition of a full-out runny nose, but which hearkens the possibility. The scratchy throat that makes it uncomfortable to drink, but which doesn't affect the dulcet tones of your speaking voice at all. It is all cumulative.

Further complicating this situation is the fact that (1) I have been working the icky hours again - which are only exacerbated by my genuine inability to concentrate, (2) I have been eating like crap - thereby bringing on unhealthy sugar highs and crashes and making my pants not fit, (3) I am not exercising - no energy, no time, and, most significantly, (4) I am not sure that there is anything else that I wish to be doing. Of course I don't want to be working, but I don't know where I would go to feel more comfortable. I feel malaised and ill-adjusted at home. I would certainly feel worse if I was at my parents house. The office is of course more refuse than refuge. Travel is out of the question because I really can't deal with being seen at this point. So what does that leave me? Checking into a hotel all by myself and meditating peacefully for a week till I find the answers to life? Maybe. That actually doesn't sound half bad. Hmmm. Sounds like I am contemplating a pilgrimage to go find Joaquin, Whitney and Pat. Stand (Drink, Smoke and Snort) By Me. Fan-fucking-tastic. No. No need for the Betty for me quite yet. My problems are organic (no, not in a hydroponic way - in like a "Dude, Where's My Serotonin" type way) not substance related. So anyway: Given my proclivities, I doubt I could properly meditiate and find myself in a Motel 6. Clearly, I would have to check into the Ritz and would then mortgage the future of my as-yet unborn children or un-sprouted Chia Pets all for a week's peace. Nah, not worth it.

I debate taking another week off. Won't happen, but I enjoy the thought of it. I do have plenty of sick time. I have topped out on vacation. Am indifferent to political capital at this point. Maybe a long weekend. Maybe not.

Normal people don't do this. Normal people don't need this.

I accept not being normal. Wouldn't know it if I saw it anyway. What I can't accept is being entirely freakish and ridiculous. A little, perhaps, but entirely, well, that is too much.

I would like instead to surf that fine line between quirky and "a little over the top." That would work. That might be do-able. Someday.