Tuesday, March 09, 2010

Just your average Tuesday, really.

I woke up at 7:30 a.m. and gave the cat his AIDS medicine. He’s having an “immune system episode” as a result of my being too busy to remember to order him more medicine when he ran out last week, and so his little lip is all fatty and swollen, like he lost a bar brawl. So now he has new medicine, and an adorable little swollen face, and I have a guilt complex.

And that’s enough about being a crazy cat lady for one day.

After AIDS medicine, I had breakfast and tried to muddle through my readings for my gender class. Or, as I like to call it, lady class.

Here is a direct quote from one of the articles titled “The face of terrorism.”

“Evoking Bataille’s famous solar anus, bin Laden’s penis-head resembles nothing so much as a giant pineal gland dwarfing all potential for civilization.”

I mean…come on. This is just…no. I can’t even…nay. NO. NEIN!

At 9:30 I decided to go for a run. I’ve been trying to run 10km in under 50 minutes. So far I can do it in an hour, but I breathe like I’m trying to expel my lungs through my mouth. So, I need practice. The reason I’m trying to increase my speed is to prepare for my move to TheBigCity, where I imagine running outside will involve sprinting away from homeless people with knives and dodging syringes. So, ya. Speed is key to my survival.

Even though it’s the first week of March, I went in just shpants and a tank top. I figured I would sweat once I got started and heat myself up. Plus the sun looked warm.

Incorrect. I froze my box off.

It took all of 30 seconds for my arms to go numb, and I ran with them dangling by my side like I was paralyzed from the waist up. Which, essentially, I was.

My whole body aches now, which might be from building muscle but could also be from frostbite to all four of my limbs.

After the world’s hottest, longest shower, I made a gigantic ham sandwich and sat down to tackle more lady class readings.

“Gangsta Bush: white face with the desires and dick of a black man, proving his weapon to be longer and stronger than his bitch’s, bin Laden’s (fig. 34).”


So, I messaged TigerCat on facebook and we chatted about hot yoga while I ate my lunch. As she was describing her instructor’s crack-pot commentary (“put your head on your knee to evoke your pituitary gland”), I heard a voice and a buzzing sound in my hallway.

“Hello? Hello? Help!! *buzz*”

Like any good citizen, I ignored it for several minutes. TigerCat described how her instructor told her to bend backwards for good colon health. And then:


Ah, shit. My apartment is right beside the elevators. No one seemed to be helping her. I couldn’t ignore her any more. Quickly, I tossed my half eaten sandwich on the counter and ran outside.

“HELP! HELP! *buzz*”

I faced elevator 1 and yelled into the doors.


Vivian is our obese, surly landlady with what I suppose we could describe as a lady mullet. She works in an office on the ground floor. I opted to take the stairs. When I got to her office she looked up from her frozen dinner and scowled.



Vivian scowled more deeply.

“Why isn’t she ringing the buzzer?”

“She is.”

Vivian ambled over to her walky talky.

“Jim? Someone is trapped in an elevator on the 6th floor.”

Jim is our superintendant. He has a man mullet and smells like he smokes contraband cigarettes in an air-tight locker.

Then Vivian nodded at me, which I took as my cue to leave. She followed me out and stood by elevator 1. She croaked at the door.


I strutted back up the five flights of stairs to my own apartment, feeling like a do-gooder, expecting a medal to be delivered to my door at any moment.

I sat back down at my computer and told TigerCat what happened. Then I went into the kitchen for my sandwich. Nay, my VICTORY SANDWICH.

The cat was crouched over it, a slab of ham hanging out of his greedy little AIDS mouth. When he saw me he bolted into my room, dragging the ham under the bed to eat in solitude.

I get no respect.



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Did you eat the sammich remains?

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