free falling

For the past three days, when friends inquire how I am, I have regularly been responding, “My brain feels as though it is being squished open like a zit with a waffle iron.” Today, I felt like Atreyu riding that winged-dog monster through space, as I handed a box containing what is tantamount to THE GRAND FUTURE OF MY LIFE’S TRAJECTORY–a magical box of firecrackers, all the sparkles in my blood, and “THE PEARL OF MY YOUTH”–over to the Fed Ex lady. I GAVE MY FUTURE (plus $35) TO A WOMAN WEARING BLUE MASCARA, A FAKE FRENCH MANICURE, AND SUN-IN.
Now I just want to cry, scream, and pee all at the same time. Have you ever FedExed something that in a way determined your whole life? It is terrifying. I feel like I’m on the Oregon trail. I crossed myself in front of the county courthouse (pure coincidence; it’s next door to the FedEx hub). Because, despite declared agnosticism, my not-so-latent affinity for La Virgen has got me calling on her holiness for help with the most important stuff: i.e., NCAA fantasy tournaments, my Future in a Box, and the prompt delivery of the new Gift of Gab solo record. And, that when I finally get around to watching it, that the choreography in the Britney “Toxic” video is at least as good as the choreography I have appointed to it, both in my mind and in my kitchen.
See? Me now crazy.
Back to pop culturisms soon, when time loosens. You should go see what Jay Smooth has been writing on lately, because it’s all really good.

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