saint-louise's Diaryland Diary
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I've been possessed by dated pop culture.
So…yeah, I find it very disturbing how little I’ve updated in the past few weeks. It always distresses me when I get into these moods of only partial interest in what I’m attempting to convey. And it’s not just in my personal writing. It’s ANY communication. I’ll get halfway through an email at work – “Yeah! We need those data size estimates by end of day today! Let’s do it! Yeahyeahyeah!” – and suddenly I’ll lose energy and think, “Oh, screw this sideways. Let’s see…uh…'Hand over the quotes or you’ll never see your kids again.' Right. Send.”
Or even in meetings, in the middle of a sentence, I’ll be possessed to say things like, “…so under the circumstances, I don’t see how these project timelines could be...um. Huh. Actually, you know…even if you were on fire right now, being chased by a pack of rabid yeti, and had the worst yeast infection known to humankind, I could not give less of a shit. I’m getting some coffee. Want some?”
This happens to me every so often. Nothing interests me. Music, books, television, movies, food, people, computers, outdoors, indoors, under my desk, curled up in a ball next to the trash bin attempting to avoid notice by the mob of co-workers trying to force me into another meeting. None of it has that spark of excitement and fervor that I usually delight in. Until I am able to somehow shake myself out of the funk, I’m committed to be waaaaay funky. And certainly not in an Al Green, smooth-talking-you-out-of-your-pants way.
I’m stuck with funky me. And so is everyone else. A good time for all, really.
This time, however, my mind has mixed the blahs with an extra-healthy dose of stress. This gives an effect something like mixing meth and opium, I would assume. I want to pass out and hallucinate in peace, but I’m compelled to wash the ceilingswashtheceilingsMUSTWASHCEILINGSARRRRGH.
The last time I experienced this much tension, one day at work my eyesight went wonky so it felt like I was cross-eyed, and I threw up the only things in my stomach that day, which were Dr. Pepper and bile. So far, that hasn’t happened again, but I’m beginning to have serious doubts about my ability to be effective at work nonetheless. When I begin to do things like walk up to co-workers, and then start but not complete three thoughts in rapid succession, and then completely forget what I was even talking about, things are looking a little sad on the employment front.
I feel like my brain has been sprayed with liquid nitrogen, and now I’m just waiting for someone to hit it with a sledgehammer and shatter it into tiny fragments. Like in “Terminator 2” with the evilbad robot (pronounced ROEbutt) who, because he was all melty, couldn’t be stopped! Never! Never! Unless he joined the cast of “The X-Files.”
But the evilbad robot gets all frozen with the liquid nitrogen. And Arnie – of CAHLEEEFORNIA, or from the future, whichever is weirder – is all, like, “Hasta la vista, baby,” and we’re all, like, “Whoo! You couldn’t see a dipshit line like that coming from a mile away.” And then Arnie shoots the robot and the robot is all, like, shattershattershatter.
And so then why the fuck didn’t Arnie, and that chick that got dumped by James Cameron shortly after the worst movie ever made won an Oscar, and the kid with the bad nineties skate-rat-wannabe haircut and puberty voice…why didn’t they run right over and grab all the little evilbad robot pieces and throw them as far away from each other as they could, to buy them more time to get away? Maybe Arnie was feeling the long-term effects of steroids suddenly take hold, and was trying to come up with ways to lie about his penis size? Maybe dumped chick was paralyzed by the realization of how shitty that show “Beauty and the Beast” really, really, really was? And maybe the amazing disheveled boy was still a little pissed that they had cast that annoying fuck from “Diff’rent Strokes” as his mulleted best friend?
Maybe.
And at the end? When they finally destroy the evilbad robot by kicking his sorry, melty ass into a vat of liquid metals, and smelted him but good? Does that mean that when the factory workers came back in the next morning and commenced work, creating car frames and rivets and other pieces of metally goodness that enhance our daily, modern lives, that a lot of things had evilbad robot bits in them? And they might, at any time, come back to life and try to kill people? If the world goes all “Maximum Overdrive,” don’t you dare think I won’t know what happened. And we can’t be so bold as to assume we’ll have Emilio Estevez to get rid of that clown-face semi. No siree.
Really. Keeping smelted evilbad robot from the future around? That’s irresponsible. Like just storing gelatinous blobs from outer space in jars in your kitchen.
Ummm.
Huh.
You see what I have to deal with here?
Must. Wash. Ceilings.
11:17 a.m. - 2003-09-12
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