Not My Blog
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Twilight in dementia, that's the end I dread. And sigh, those of you inclined to do so, please add your obligatory teenage vampire movie witticism here. I've been doing a lot of thinking about Quietus Janae lately, possibly because I'm reading "The Emperor of All Maladies" by Siddhartha Mukherjee, possibly because of the current bad brain. Oh, and the occasional lump. What else is all this but the incidental music to middle age? I must keep myself busier to push away all musings about The End, that's what. Oh, and I always want to be dead when my brain is bad, so nothing new there. Meanwhile life goes on, and days see me being entranced by yoga students, raging about the slapdash manure-raking of others, lost in brilliant writing -- well. Life it is.
I'm trying to read "My Booky-Wook" by the actor/comedian Russell Brand, who was brilliant in "Get HIm to the Greek." The book, hmm . . . I think I'd enjoy listening to it more than I'm enjoying reading it. It is just plain silly with lashings of smut, and a few pages of that is more than enough for me. Brand's pretty damned brilliant, but he still needs an editor.
Tax troubles. Sigh. Not the best of things to happen at any time, but particularly not when the psyche is spluttering. Still, perhaps I'll have enough to keep me occupied in prison after I'm convicted for bad math.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Life Goes Backwards, continued . . . after the surgery in 2005, I quite suddenly stopped having a regular cycle. [Oh, sorry, forgot to say OVERSHARE ALERT OVERSHARE ALERT. There.] The world's most regular cycle slowed and, within a year, stopped pretty much completely. A trace here and there, but practically nothing for nearly three years. Then I began practising Bikram Yoga. Then I became a Bikram teacher. And suddenly: once again I'm surfing the crimson wave, as the delightful Cher says in Clueless. Two accompanying shocks: I had forgotten how much fempro costs. As in: a lot. Holy. And the mood wobbles (they're not quite swings) have been disconcerting.
When I mentioned this to a fellow teacher, she responded by informing me how the yoga really boosts people's fertility. Lotta' babies getting born. Well, I'm pretty sure that's not in my future, unless of course Bikram yoga enables sporing.
Make it stop. I am counting the days until June 30, 2011, when I will quit Toastmasters. I've always disliked the Toastmasters International organization, finding it utterly bureaucratic and humorless, and although I've always like the members in my local club, I have no desire to work through any more speech manuals. Tonight I'm half-heartedly giving what's probably going to be my last speech, all about coincidence and luck. It's got the usual contingent of bullshit in it -- but I admit to feeling guilty that I just don't care anymore. Don't care enough to put in even 10 minutes practising. So it's going to be clumsy and long. Right now, with my current bad brain, I just don't care. Come on, June 30. Come now.
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