saint-louise's Diaryland Diary
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I'm trying to drown myself, but I forget to inhale.
At some point, a couple of weeks ago, I decided that I needed to increase my water intake.
The Devil made me do it. If I don�t follow through by drinking a certain amount every day, he gets to claim my eternal soul. But little does he know he�s getting the shaft on this deal, cats. This particular eternal soul was fitted with a �74 model of human flesh that has been ill-maintained if not downright abused. And the odometer cracked so you can�t tell exactly what mileage has been put on this puppy.
So fuck you, Mister Devil Man. My eternal soul isn�t even worth enough to pay Hell�s electric bill for one hour. What do you think of your deal now, bucko?
I would think that a decision to drink more water ("more" meaning "liquid tons" in this case) would normally be made in a moment of gung-ho health-craze. But, no. That�s not MY style. I make these kinds of commitments to myself in states of half-consciousness, right before I get out of bed, shower, have coffee�or have any form of rational thought, for that matter. I have made several decisions in this state of mind, indicating to me a bizarre, congenital brain defect.
So, to honor all junkies, rapists, thieves, asshole ex-boyfriends, alcoholics and general lazy bastards and whiny adolescents who have ever used this excuse for their behavior, I would like to blame my current problem on my parents.
My name is Louise and I�m addicted to water.
I have a bottle on my desk at work that is so large it is obscene. Really. I think it�s inappropriate for children. I offend the elderly. Animals growl at me. People walk over to my desk and say things like, "Louise, have you had a chance to talk to Chris about the October release of�(pause)�what�s with the plastic pillar on your desk? Doesn�t that shadow make it hard for you to work? Damn it, Louise, I think you are creating a hostile work environment."
I drag my water bottle around from meeting to meeting, displaying my dirty little secret for all to see. How could I possibly carry a bottle this size naturally, what with the need for the dolly and all? No, there is definitely no hiding it.
And you all KNOW what Freud would say about a bottle that size, hmm?
(Hey. Mister Freud Man: fuck you, too.)
There is one final disadvantage to my addiction. I�ll give anyone a dollar that can guess what it is.
Take your time.
�
(Note to the guy I had a meeting with yesterday afternoon:
You know when you were going on and on about the need for an additional incremental release and what you felt should be documented in the ini file for reference, and I looked really interested � all professional and head-nodding and eye-contact and saying, "Oh, yes. Good idea"? You remember that? Well, I was thinking that if you didn�t shut up within three minutes, I was going to leap across the table at you and throttle you into silence so I could go use the bathroom.
My bladder hates you. I hate you.
Plus, your shoes were bad.)
�
So. Someone tell me how to extend my self-improvement plan to include my ability to read the opposite sex.
Hey, you: receiving a once-over in line for lunch didn�t spell it out for me. I don�t care how many of my co-workers say that we "match." Are you just a pig, or was that overt interest that spills into admiration for each other�s footwear and mutual attraction to intelligence? What kind of tripped-out situation IS this, anyway?
And you: making cracks about who is the better pool player, casting an occasional furtive glance through the haze of smoke in the room, and a casual, cryptic inquiry into how I am going to get home could be mere social banter or your inhibitions due to shyness. Do you think I can read your mind?
And you. And you. And you. All of you. If you are funny and smart and self-sufficient and confident and kind. If you love children. If you can speak to me articulately, without feeling the need to lay out how much alcohol you drink and how well hung you are.[1] And if you like what you see and know of me: say so. However you need to. Now. I insist.
If you don�t, I suppose I must only shrug and dismiss and move on. This is not a frat party, or high school, or singles chat. I am too old and cranky for that shit.
I�m bored with the flirtation-interpretation game.
Plus, I have a monstrous water bottle and I know how to use it. The Devil and Freud and the entire male gender be damned.
Indeed.
[1] Dark hair, high cheekbones and glasses are a plus. I can be as shallow as the rest of you. Kiss kiss.
Bang bang.
11:29 a.m. - 2001-09-21
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