lycanthropia

Dearest ———,

Good morning, from the land where I say “morning” even though it’s 3 pm, because this is the first email of the day and so it is officially morning as far as WE are concerned.

Alas, in news of the crazy meds, I still can’t read for shit (flipping through/skimming Wilkie Collins every night in a most reprehensible way), but today on day three FINALLY the increased dose of Effexor has kicked in (37.5 x 3 instead of 37.5 x 2) and I feel so much better, I can’t even begin to tell you. And then I have the same bright thought I usually do after such episodes: “Holy crap, I’ve been really depressed!” It’s not an original thought, but one that strikes me every time with such force that only then do I realize how miserable I’ve been, and for how long. It’s so strange that a bitter little pill can make me able to do my life easily, as opposed to feeling like I’m being asked to push mud uphill with every breath.

I notice I am still driving looking through the steering wheel instead of over it, so I am not out of the woods yet. Although I skipped yogalates yesterday in favor of putting comments (!) on eight (!) papers. Now there are only 16 left and those trickling in. Somehow I will survive this.

It’s funny, I don’t yet know how to have a blog that’s not about the crazy and/or boyfriend Boyfriend BOYFRIEND. Today for no particular reason I remembered a dream he told me about last year, a dream in which I tried to give him a copy of The Ethical Slut, which he contemptuously refused. The male dreamer refused to take the book of wisdom from the feminine, in the dream, because he wanted his own male version—he didn’t want to accept the feminine’s version of what “ethical” meant for him.

It seems that every so often I still have to remind myself that what he did wasn’t polyamory, it was just dishonest.

Funny story: a dear recovering-alcoholic drummer friend (not my ex-boyfriend, there are multiple ones in my life apparently) left an Amanda Palmer video on my FB wall, and then, when I didn’t comment for a few days, commented herself sarcastically, something like “Oh thank you so much for this, it was so interesting!”—and what did I do? I reacted immediately and apologetically: “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, I’ve been really down lately and hadn’t watched it, I’m watching it now”—and I was watching it (and quite enjoying it) when I realized: I am still springing into action whenever an alcoholic has a hurt feeling and blames me for it, taking responsibility as though it were mine.

Translation: I am not allowed to date for a good long while still. But we knew this.

Although a good friend proposed that I should have a fling with someone, that it would do me good. Whereupon we had this conversation.

Friend: For example, where are you going tonight?
Me: I have a hot date with my sweatpants and a Robert Downey movie.
Friend [looks at me assessingly]: You should have a fling.
Me: I want to have a fling! Get me a fling! Why does no one want to fling with me?
Friend: Um, SWEATPANTS?
Me: Oh. Right.

And now I return to my gluten-free organic chicken nuggets (which I will make for you someday, with the coconut milk and the almond meal) and the Robert Downey movie (Zodiac). Frankly the sexiest thing I’ve seen in weeks was The Wire‘s mayor-elect Thomas Carcetti rebuffing the advances of someone who is not his wife. It gave me serious tinglegina. I am aroused by fidelity, now.

And speaking of sweatpants, I am on my last clean pair, and my last clean pair of knickers too, and I bought socks after AWP but am even down to my last pair of those. Also Pyewacket ate a gigantic wad of grass and then was psychedelically, grandly sick all over the bedsheets, so tomorrow = laundry day.

PS—there’s a longish post in me on Zen and sexual ethics; and a review of three different extra-dark chocolate bars; but sufficient unto the day is the bloviating thereof.