Motrin

Motrin - what a cow the bitch who wouldn't let people eat bananas was. Perhaps it was too much to ask about the different forms of advil.

I think about advil because there's pain in all the wrong places today. So much for taking the weekend off and not putting the physical through its paces. Perhaps though today, Mr. CL will do something miraculous and tweak something right and relief the pressure on the nerves what keep chattering away at the brain.

And speaking of chattering, I do wish the brain would shut the fuck up and stop hounding me with suppositions, theories and probabilities.

I also found out this weekend that Mrs. Dalloway does have a narrative - news to me that. And from Mrs. D to Old Sir Falk, tall as a stork with not Penelope Wilton, but Prunella Scales whom Lady Rose kinda resembles, doing the recitation.

Mrs. D stepped out to look for flowers yesterday and was stymied by the fact that most of the late summer and early autumn flowers are simply far too gaudy and not very elegant. She left the florist defeated and almost bought some plastic flowers but desisted at the last minute. Instead she thought of going to see her optometrist instead to deal with the little blinking purple light that has been bothering her awake and asleep. It may be time to silver some light bulbs as after all the procedure is apparently easy - all you need is silver nitrate and sugar ("...and what is Mrs. Crawley making? A suit of armour?) and a fume hood because otherwise you run the dangers of breathing in sodium azide which would shut down your mitochondria and basically stop your metabolism and the result would be death secondary to mitochondrial poisoning.

This week and last and the last and the last and it goes came and went in a most boring routine way. The problem is that the shoebox what has vistas has become boring and mistakes have been made with the stocking of stuff. There has to be a clear out of sorts I fear. It may not yet come to pass, but it will be close. Maybe best to just snort the NaAz and be done with it although according to the good Dr. DB in Victoria, it would be an excruciatingly painful death, and what he said was that if you really, really, really wanted to inconvenient people by doing yourself in the laboratory he could give you better chemicals than azide - much less painful and faster is what he said. It's too bad that the poor old soul who did exactly that didn't pay him any attention for after it happened, his widow went somewhat demented and blamed his senior post-doctoral fellow for the tragedy and she'd come into the lab with her umbrella and sweep all the shchlenk tubes and assorted glassware to the floor and wail to heavens about the injustice of it all. And what do you make of the man who denies the existence of God but reads the horoscope? That's alright, it makes perfect sense to me not that it really matters whether it does or not for people are people - neither rational, logical nor precise. You behave according to your experience and hormonal balance, and that's about it. It's fucked, but that's the way it is. After all, what is the point if everything was logical and rational? Look what happens to Lionel and Jean - she wins pretty much every encounter they have precisely because she doesn't deign to give logic any sort of place in her life.

Of course, it's not real - that's the problem. What reality there is is muted by delusion. Friday Feeshies at SR's. Saturday night patio time at the SOCK's. Fringe showing on Sunday with CT, then supper with JM. All this activity and for what? It all came down to the hippo's mouth. The fecking hippo's mouth who spoilt everything - or maybe it was me who let it all be spoiled and go rotten. In any case, all I can think of today is the hippo's mouth and so I'd best eschew any extended visits to the zoo.

Be that as it may. Mrs. D wishes that she could care less about what goes on in the world and in her world. It would be so much easier to be a psychopath without empathy or sympathy. For after all, what does loyalty, dependability, responsibility and integrity get you in the end? An empty eulogy with words that are rendered meaningless by the sequence of events. Words. How useless.

So how should Mrs. D end this ramble today? On a note of positive light and Dalai Lhamaness or should she just leave things toxic and in a state of complete dudgeon? I rather favor the latter and I think today is the day that TBV is ignored and Mrs. D has the last word - her own words that is, and not some digested and regurgitated form of whoever or whatever - and Mrs. D says, Fuck the current state of affairs because she's pissed beyond belief at the uselessness of her role in the narrative. She would like to have the chance to step out beyond the pages which confine her like Kurtz was allowed to in Headhunters.

A note to Virginia: This too will pass and Mrs. D will regain her equanimity although this time it may take more time than usual.  Now to get that motrin.