curvylou

textiles · exploration · misadventure


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To Say Nothing of the Dog

but good god, I am sick as one.

Ugh.

Possible Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease; possible ulcer; possible god knows what else.

On a medication somebody online describes as the “zombie depression” drug, which says it all. Although you know I am going to find more to say, despite saying “zombie depression drug” says it all.

I feel more stoned than I have since I gave up smoking weed 20 years ago. This shit is almost hallucinatory at times. I forget what I’m doing in the middle of spelling a word. I already had a hard time responding directly to a yes or no question, now I REALLY wander off into irrelevant verbal weeds.

I’m reading a lot of Agatha Christie recently; I had no idea she was as good a writer as she is, although I’m wondering if it’s she that’s bigoted or just her characters, who profess the most outrageous things sometimes. For example, here’s this paragraph describing two people who meet cute, are now getting to know each other, and who are supposed to be the heroes of our story:

They liked dogs and disliked cats. They both hated oysters and loved smoked salmon. They liked Greta Garbo and disliked Katherine Hepburn. They didn’t like fat women and admired really jet-black hair. They disliked very red nails. They disliked loud voices, noisy restaurants and negroes. They preferred buses to tubes.

SAY WHAT?

Stopped me in my tracks. Really, there are so many things wrong with that paragraph that I don’t know where to start.

I can, in fact, do literary analysis, having studied it for several years, but I’m not going to perform that trick today, because I haven’t got enough brain cells functioning all at the same time. My POINT is—and yes I have one—is that reading this old fiction, full of witty 1920s dialog and glamour, is depressing me more. All these old English houses surrounded by parks and QUIET.

This morning, the phrase “love match” sent me on a morning-long voyage into depressed nostalgia for the early 1900s, an era which, first, I didn’t ever participate in, so how am I nostalgic for it, and second, wasn’t all that glamorous or friendly towards most of the participants anyway.

That’s an example of moderate verbal weeds. It’s been worse.

In the meantime, I’m horrendously nauseous off and on all day, stoned out of my mind on Pantoprazole, changing every eating habit I’ve ever collected, and on top of that I quit smoking. It says something about how rotten I feel that I’m willing to go to these lengths to change it.

Fingers crossed it works. I have a follow-up doctor’s appointment next Monday. You may not hear much from me between now and then. I’m still textiling, slowly, but blogging is hard.