Bent Words

Bent Words

July 10, 2010


"I said, you threw your back out -- you're getting old."

(This coming from my manager who is less than a year younger than me.)

"I'm not getting OLD. I'm getting OLD-ER. Just like newborn babies get older. Like 17-year-olds get older. Like you're getting ol-- oh wait. Nevermind. You're just getting stupid-ER. Right before my eyes."


Besides, I didn't "throw my back out." I pulled a muscle. A muscle which apparently controls my ability to turn from side to side, bend over even moderately and look up. Moderately. But I didn't throw my back out. I'm not lying on the floor sans mobility. It's not necessary for me to have a chiropractor -- must less on voice recognition dial so he can hear me screaming from my phone which is seven feet away while I'm helplessly trapped in my own non-functional body.

No. It's not that bad.

(I wonder if that's just the AWESOMENESS of the Percocet talking...)

Still, it does amaze how much CRAP starts to happen when one progresses (slowly) past thirty.

My metabolism, for instance, has vacated the premises. This wouldn't be such a noteworthy issue if it weren't for the fact that my energy level has been significantly decreased during this time as well. This makes exercising all the more pertinent but altogether that much less appealing. I mean, I'm ever so efficient at 12 ounce curls (another side effect of turning thirty -- a newfound appreciation for beer), but I can hardly call myself 'in shape' with such minimal effort.

Although round is a shape, too.

Luckily my eye sight has always been piss poor or else I'd perhaps complain that I'm losing that as well. My sight, that is. This is hardly comforting considering my recent bouts with lexdyslia (see previous post).


Initially I intended this commentary to be strictly jocular, however it seems more accurate than it does amusing when one considers the consistency of it all so now I'm just depressed. Which is lame. So now for something completely different.


Ahhhhh, yes. I feel much better now. I've just purchased a new pair of jeans and some "moisture wicking socks which are guaranteed not to lose their shape wash after wash."

Some pretty impressive socks, if I do say so myself.

Unfortunately the jeans were purchased with my new figure in mind but I'm like eight feet tall so I can pull off a 'handful' of extra weight nicely.

That and the Percocet has successfully made me believe that I'm Super Woman.

Which is seriously fun.

*striking a ridiculous pose*


In other news, Mr. X graced me with his voice last night. Most gratifying, indeed.

I don't know what it is about him that makes me smile and, indeed, I shouldn't smile because of him at all, but isn't it just grand to have someone in your life who simply wants to make you smile? Someone who just wants to make you, and subsequently hear you, laugh?

I can attest to the fact that it is, indeed, quite grand.

Perhaps my means of acquisition are not so entirely noble but they are significantly satisfying.

When you're down to your last $20 and all hell is breaking lose at work and you can't find a new job to save your life despite your "qualifications and back ground being impressive" and your heart feels a little less empty than it should and you've not been kissed like it's your last day on earth in so long you can hardly stand it and your favorite pair of men's jeans don't fit as complimentary as they once did and you've pulled a muscle in your back which makes you wonder what happened to your invincible youth and there's nothing left for you to do but sigh and hope to take it all in stride...

It sure feels good when someone goes out of their way to make you laugh all that nonsense away.

We've finished up the filthy war;

We've won what we were fighting for . . .

(Or have we? I don't know).

But anyway I have my wish:

I'm back upon the old Boul' Mich',

And how my heart's aglow!

Though in my coat's an empty sleeve,

Ah! do not think I ever grieve

(The pension for it, I believe,

Will keep me on the go).

So I'll be free to write and write,

And give my soul to sheer delight,

Till joy is almost pain;

To stand aloof and watch the throng,

And worship youth and sing my song

Of faith and hope again;

To seek for beauty everywhere,

To make each day a living prayer

That life may not be vain.

To sing of things that comfort me,

The joy in mother-eyes, the glee

Of little ones at play;

The blessed gentleness of trees,

Of old men dreaming at their ease

Soft afternoons away;

Of violets and swallows' wings,

Of wondrous, ordinary things

In words of every day.

To rhyme of rich and rainy nights,

When like a legion leap the lights

And take the town with gold;

Of taverns quaint where poets dream,

Of cafes gaudily agleam,

And vice that's overbold;

Of crystal shimmer, silver sheen,

Of soft and soothing nicotine,

Of wine that's rich and old,

Of gutters, chimney-tops and stars,

Of apple-carts and motor-cars,

The sordid and sublime;

Of wealth and misery that meet

In every great and little street,

Of glory and of grime;

Of all the living tide that flows—

From princes down to puppet shows—

I'll wake my humble rhyme.

So if you like the sort of thing

Of which I also like to sing,

Just give my stuff a look;

And if you don't, no harm is done-—

In writing it I've had my fun;

Good luck to you and every one—

And, so

Here ends my book.

---L'Envoi (Robert Service)

Written at 7:33 p.m.