Note to self:
The time thinking about her? That is wasted time. The time thinking about her perfect auburn hair, long and wavy like a girl in a library in a J Crew ad. Her perfect setups and punchlines, so precious and perfect as well, as if crafted with small tools in a top-secret Harvard Comedy Graduate School, which for all we know may very well exist, those near demi-Gods being so reserved and appropriate, not needing to tell everyone about their attendance at an elite comedian breeding ground, which you know would be the first words out of my crusty red-lipsticked mouth. Oh world! Why have you rendered me so imperfect! My dimpled thighs and bucked tooth (just one bucked, the one on the right--not even my imperfection can be perfect!), my black-wire hair, my pockmarked and blackheaded skin! All to match my crooked speech and uncontrolled and lugubrious set-ups. Oh world! When will the mercy come! Make way for the mercy of the Lord! Give peace to me. Cease these days at the register. These days of typing blogs from beneath the sheets, lest the world (which is of course my roommate, my world so small) see the hideous beast I have become and incur a shock to the immune system, a temporary shutdown, as the system recalibrates after being exposed to such a horror. Oh God why have you made them all so attractive! And why must they all get on at one train stop! Certainly you could spread them out! Some on at Morgan, some at Graham. No! We must endure the concentrated assault, the shock and awe campaign that is Bedford Avenue. Oh please merciful Jesus! Draw our attentions away from the unending slim-legged beauty engrossed in the John Updike and deliver it to the four foot Peruvian curled up on the urine-soaked bench! This prayer God? Allow me to stop this prayer. Allow me to think no more of these children, these, okay, women and men, who haunt my dreams. And lord! Please explain to me why I murdered two men in my sleep last night, symbolized only by the rigorous slicing of a beet, and then entered into another nightmare, where I was awaking from that previous nightmare, filled with terror that I am the sort that is capable of murder in dreams, and then perhaps capable of murder in real life! And God! What happened the other day with the Viva paper towel commercial? The one with the son who sprays the mother with orange pop, prompting the mother to spray the son with the kitchen sink hose? The one that I couldn't get out of my mind, and when I prayed to you to make me stop thinking about it, pondering the perhaps misogynistic, anti-mother message of it, that only made me think of it more? And granted God this is better than some unending spirals of other more personal thoughts, for example those thoughts, those thoughts about them, the ones I took to Dr. Weiss. "I have got to know about them. Why didn't I put a chip in his sock the last time I saw him? Why wasn't I more proactive with this? Isn't there a detective you can put me in touch with? You have been doing this long enough! Certainly you can make a referral." And when she asked me which couple we were talking about now I laughed at the absurdity of it. Does it really matter Dr. Weiss? Does it really fucking matter? If I don't have a chip to place in a sock or the business card of a handsome and trusty gumshoe. Any one of them. I'll take any information on any of them. Restaurant menus and hotel bills and sexual positions and inside jokes. Calories consumed, parties attended, fights…please Dr. Weiss, maybe if we work together on this we can come up with something. "All we know about is you." Well that's no fun Dr. Weiss! We know about my acne and my gravel driveway and OH the pain that that caused. Oh the humiliation. The crunching sound as the clear-skinned wealthy beauties I considered my cohorts and colleagues pulled their Volvos and Grand Prixes (yes! I even consider a Grand Prix to be a vehicle for the upper crust!) into our humble, pebble driveway. Leading of course to that place. That house. Oh Dr. Weiss, if I could only present for you in power point presentation the horrors that happened in that house. Mostly involving denied shopping trips to TJ Maxx and literal crying over spilled milk. Oh to be the girl who spilled the milk! Oh pity her! For her night—and her snack of cookies and milk is ruined! Do you see the horrors Dr. Weiss? Do you see them in full color detail? Please deliver me from this insanity, Dr. Weiss. Wipe clean the dry erase boards of my mind. Thrust the erasers out the window and bang them together, releasing into the spring air the yellow dust I miss so much. Wring out the white cotton cloth and slap it against the slate tables of the Olive Tree Café. Oh Dr. Weiss! Write out for me a prescription for peace, wealth and a trip to Santa Fe. Santa Fe! Could you imagine! Do you remember the night Doug Milken and I ran through the Santa Fe WalMart, looking for underwear for him, and I felt so uncomfortable, because I was the 17 year old nanny and he was the 50 year old father? Of course you do not remember, you are not a God but a shrink, but oh how I do like to pretend that you know it all. How comforting.
Oh Lord, please look upon me with favor, and grant me a ticket to Elton John's 70th birthday bash. We have missed the 60th and that is fine and well. But please lord for these next ten years, let your light shine down upon my face and allow me to share with all the world what they need most: my coffee-stained, buck tooth smile.