January 2017 Archives

the anna kendrick dream

Out of nowhere, last night I dreamt that I was in a relationship with Anna Kendrick. She was not in the dream. My subconscious is not that kind. No, my entire dream was a lengthy simulation of how I would react to being hounded by paparazzi and vivisected on social media. It turns out I was not a fan. I warred with the world, punching photographers and publicly lashing out at those abusing me for my unworthiness. My meltdown was of Michael Richards/Mel Gibson proportions. I became an international punchline. When I awoke, my thoughts were two:

  1. Who dreams about dating Anna Kendrick but excludes her from the dream? Just...who?
  2. Yeah, that was accurate.

locking the doors and windows

I've been avoiding media, especially of the social persuasion, since the election. I am happier for this. Just how insulated am I? I didn't hear about the women's protests until the day of, when a friend told me why she couldn't watch the game.

Scary hermetical.

pause

The real estate pics started green, then turned yellow and red, then deathly brown, then white. Now people proudly show the six-foot mounds of snow on either side of their driveway, and I wonder why on earth you would put that in your ad.

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the peak of my attractiveness

In the post-Fucking Amy aftermath, while I sorted through all my sad and stabby feelings, all I really wanted was someone with whom I could do dinner and a movie. This person couldn’t be male, because…well, what’s the point of talking to a guy? I’ve never known. Elizabeth served as my movie buddy for a time but then had the audacity to move away. Then came Bonnie, who had to ruin a good thing by deciding that my depression was irresistibly attractive. So I next tried the safety of a married woman, who, you guessed it, was eventually attracted to the world's most challenging fixer-upper. I'd known about both cliches—women are attracted to men they can fix, people are attracted to the emotionally unavailable—but until this time of my life, I'd never given it much credit. I do now.

And so it was on to a lesbian movie buddy. Gennifer and I were already work friends who went out to dinner from time to time, so movies were a natural extension. That couldn’t fail, right? We went out several times, and she told me all about her partner and gayness in general. Score! What a pleasant distraction from the steaming abyss where my soul used to be.

“So,” she said one day while picking nervously at her Phad Thai, “I’m thinking about trying men…”

And that is how I learned to love going to movies and dinner alone. As a bonus, I can tell texters off without mortifying anyone I know.

deep from givenoshits valley

By any reasonable measure, one might think me depressed. I'm not leaving the house. The house is filthy. I have zero interest in seeing people. Chores are not getting done, including posting to this page. All I'm doing is surfing and watching TV, all day, every day. So why do I say I'm not depressed? Because I'm actually pretty happy with this state of affairs.

That would seem to be the line between depression and sloth.

no reason

I told the plumber about the comical sequence of events that led to his presence here. He shrugged. "That's home ownership," he said. "Something goes wrong every day."

"You've lived your whole life in Pittsburgh?" I asked.

"Yeah. Why?"

same as the old year

2016 may be gone, but it is decidedly not forgotten. It has reach.

I'm presently in day 6 without water in my house or, as I prefer to think of it, Year Two. My New Year's was as water-free as my Christmas was heat-free and my Labor Day was AC-free. I'm looking forward to my oxygen-free President's Day.

My kitchen faucet developed a slow drip and, having not learned a thing in the six months here, I endeavored to repair it like I would on a normal house. I bought new washers. I went below the sink to turn off the water, and the cutoff valve burst in my hand. This being this house, the water sprayed the uncovered electrical box right next to the valve. I stuggled to find the next cutoff valve, which was, of course, both inaccessible and soon broken. I had no choice but to turn off the main for the entire house, which is located right next to the main breaker box, of course. It was then that I discovered that the main water line is not mounted to the wall but is instead tethered by clothes hanger to the gas line, which is also not mounted to the wall.

As for the six-day delay, that's Pittsburgh. They work when they feel like it. I don't even fight it anymore. I just look at real estate elsewhere.


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