Did you know there's a mental equivalent of constipation? Yeah. Turns out daily writing for me is like another daily function that's a pretty important part of feeling like an OK human. And I have not been writing daily. Thoughts, complaints, profound observations about the human condition, burning questions of good and evil-- they've all been tamped down in an ever-growing pile of verbal compost and now I am officially "backed up." Like a septic tank.
Instead of writing this week I've been mainlining the winter Olympics, high on the powerful opiate of sport-related drama. My body has been here in Corpus driving to and from work but my soul has been screaming itself hoarse in Torino, running from venue to venue in slushy Italian snow to gasp at horrific full-ass falls on the triple-lutz, roar with glee as another toothpick-skinny Swede catapults off the curl of the ski jump ramp, and groan with impatience as red-cheeked American snowboarders use words like "sick" and "fakey." And we haven't even gotten to women's figure skating, which is guaranteed to just drip with pathos.
Crammed into the margins of my Olympic habit:
My husband and I decided that today would be our official Valentine's day, so to celebrate we're making homemade pizza on the grill, eating cheeses we can't pronounce, watching Tim Burton flicks, and drinking red wine. Our criteria for a good wine? Interesting picture/name, possibility of cool looking cork, and ridiculousness of descriptive adjectives-- "This passive-aggressive wine has hints of oak, chocolate, smoke and canvas and pairs well with Moldavian oxmeat or trout."
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment