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© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy, but I like you."
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The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
Welcome to my journal, darlin' puss.
Insomnia Soup 22-Oct-2004 10:56 a.m.
I don't know what to write this morning. If you don't mind, I'd like to begin today's entry by stating a fact: I presently have carpety winter hair. It does not move or flow or sway. It is similar to a Bozo wig, and I am hardly enjoying. Today I am going in search of a remedy, some kind of hair saviour in a bottle or other container. Please think of me today while you're luxuriating wherever you are, running your fingers through your hair of heavenly silk. Think of my stationary fuzz and my frantic search for an answer.
Remember that song from the 90s called "Gonna Make You Sweat (Everybody Dance Now)"? Sung by CCH Pounder? No, C&C Music Factory. (I love CCH Pounder! She's on my list of people I will most likely never know who I would very much like to invite to one of my non-existent dinner parties!) Anyway, you know the part of the song that says "Let the music take control, let the rhythm move you"? I thought she was singing, "Let the music take control, let Spurinda move you." I thought her name was Spurinda and she was referring to herself in the third person, wanting you to let her move you like she was some kind of dance music seductress. I know the real lyrics now, obviously, but I kind of wish I didn't because I miss Spurinda, that mesmerizing wizard of the beat.
I'm just going to do what I do best and stay entirely unfocused, jumping from subject to subject like a monkey swinging from branch to branch. What fun is focusing when it makes your mind feel about as delightful as a wet book? I live to flit freely. That's it, I'm putting that on a bumper sticker and joining a cult.
The other night I bent down to pet my cat Sidney and saw a praying mantis on the glass door. I have adored those fascinating little creatures all my life, and there he was, looking right back at me. Their heads move with such robotic precision. Their faces remind me of alien faces. He was not bright green like the ones I have seen in the past, but a tan colour, like a twig. There he was in all his mantis glory. I talked to him through the glass and he watched me, occasionally turning his head away, then turning back to me. Then he fell a couple inches to the pavement and landed on his side, kicking his legs wildly. I dashed outside to see what I could do to help. He had some web remnants stuck to his feet, so my splendid partner in bug healthcare fetched me a pair of tweezers, and I carefully removed the schmutz. I don't know if that's what caused the incident, but he ended up getting back on his feet and getting the hell away from me, the carpet-haired monster with tweezers.
The next night as I was closing the curtains, there he was sitting on the doormat, looking up at me. I sat down to finish the conversation I had begun the night before. He seemed to be listening. And then something caught his attention outside and he started walking away, but he was dragging more web crap on his feet and it was slowing him down considerably. He stopped and stayed still for a while. I ran and got the tweezers and went outside, gently removing the web fibers while he was scurrying away. I'm good with tweezers. I haven't seen him since and have a hard time believing I saw him the second time. I hope he is well. What makes me think it was the same praying mantis both nights? Why, the way he tipped his hat and called me sweetheart, of course.
Have you seen the movie A Letter To Three Wives? Hot shit, it's a good one. I watched it for the first time when I was a teenager one night when I couldn't sleep. I switched on the little TV on my desk and watched the late, late show. Pure enjoyment. I also remember enjoying the toots out of a week of Katharine Hepburn movies in the middle of the night. Fun with insomnia.
I watched The Children's Hour for the first time during a night of no sleep some years back. That movie left me lonely and cold, and morbidly sad. I can see myself sitting frozen on my little futon, with a stinging pain in my chest, the kind that starts like a huge electric shock and branches out slowly to the rest of your body. Hot tears rolling down my face, and big anger burning in my head.
These guys from the city are around today cutting trees away from wires. They have been by here at least 6 different times. The third time they rolled around today, the crew was met by a guy in non-work clothes, who drove a small city pick-up truck with the same logo as the large city tree-cutting truck. He argued with one of the guys for a while, which was eventually smoothed over, and later all four of the men got together for a smoke. The guy in the regular clothes must have touched his penis 27 times. I don't know why he had an erection, but he got one during the argument with the one guy, and he felt it necessary to keep touching himself. At one point he was leaning back a bit on the hood of the truck with his hand cupped over his crotch. He'd pull it, squeeze it, hold it—I was waiting for him to go to town right there. And his friends did not seem to notice his erection or his obsession with touching it. Is this common behavior among men? Maybe he has crabs, hence all the touching, perhaps trying to stop the itching. Maybe it wasn't an erection at all; maybe they were just really big crabs. Maybe he has lobsters.
Quote From My World
"Are moths contagious?" -my sister
I have had four hours of sleep in about three days. I probably appear quite drunk or insane. I'm just sitting here freezing to death. I need a nap, Jane. Thank you, and goodnight!
Linda
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