I may fully assert that the climate fucks me up, that I get a little melancholy when the days are thirteen minutes long during January (technically, also during December, but then we have the holy light of the Savior’s birth upon which to focus(and holy shit, this is me being sarcastic, right here, lest you think I’ve gone all fundie because Christ (get it? I kill (and crucify) myself) I’m totally married to an atheist after all, and also lived in sin longer than I’ve been married to the man)) but looking back on the archives, I tend to get a little cross-eyed during the summer solstice as well. I typically call it ennui, since I have no hours of daylight to point at. I dunno. Maybe it’s the not-really-a-coincidental timing of my annual aging event. Or maybe I’m just fucked up in the head.
The thing with the grade and the class has really been bugging me. I’ve been trying to let it go, but my Type A perfectionist brain just can’t. I’ve had at least four dreams about the grade that I recall. Last night’s was terribly pathetic and you don’t have to be Freud to pick out the archetypes and themes of shame and guilt. Honestly, I shouldn’t be so wrapped up in the Not An A, but I think it’s the feeling that I had done really well, that I had applied myself much more and exhausted every possible non-work hour towards sucking down 15,000 pages of text and then doing a shitload of research to be told that I didn’t use the right format on my Works Cited page and here you to, NOT AN A.
This would be whining. Even I can barely stand it.
Two or three years ago, I raged against the June ennui with a trip to the desert (rather than the dessert, as is typical), so I’m going that route again, for the trip that may set the bar too high for future trips. It involves divas, chicken and waffles, Klingons, rubbings at a spa, drag queens, another long soak in an expensive tub, many many trips out for Keller breakfast and some lovely time spent between the events with my best friend. And just when we think the vacation will have been the best thing ever, we’ll top it with an all-nighter of dancing, pancakes and also, topless vampires. So yeah, I’ve got my eyes on the prize and trying not to mope or have the typical packing anxiety. Can anything in the world be wrong when there are topless vampires to watch? That would be a solid no, my friends. A solid fucking no.
(Scene: Weetabix leans against Esteban while watching television one night)
Esteban: Are you wearing white pants?
Weetabix: No? (pulls up shirt to show that she’s wearing boxer shorts)
Esteban: Oh, I thought….
Weetabix: (realizing) Oh my god! You thought my LEGS were white pants. I am so ghostly white that you thought…
Esteban: Well… I know that you’re naturally pale, but you look particularly luminous tonight.
Weetabix: Oh my god! My pasty white legs! You think they glow in the dark?
Esteban: Most women would love to hear their husband call them luminous!
Weetabix: The root of “luminous” is “MOON”.
Esteban: The moon… is beautiful?
Weetabix: Keep digging your grave. You married a corpse anyway.
Esteban: Fuck.
