evany's extended cake mix
(PS: My diary has officially moved over to my official evany.com website. Let's meet up over there!)
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get into my head from twitter:
Saturday, Sept. 27, 2003 | link
Oh boy do I feel weird today. I think the bulk of it is that I slept on my neck wrong for the second night running and now I have this dumb crick that makes turning my head troublesome and, oddly, also makes it painful to swallow (just sandwiches, though -- fluids, the terrible and bouncy lowfat muffin I had this morning, they go down fine), like maybe the pulled nerve abuts the back my esophagus? Is that even possible?
Anyway there's a lurch in my step today, a mild sort of Frankenstein thing or, yeah this is more like it, as though I were a kind of understandably extinct bird, large and flightless and poorly balanced.
Meanwhile I can't seem to wake up, whatever coffee I drink appears to be diverting to some wrong, other stomach. And for no possible good reason, running through my head on a cruelly tight loop is Rodney Dangerfield going, "What, is the deal ...?" Or maybe Andy Rooney. Mickey Rooney. Mickey Rourke. Mister Rourke. Mister Rogers. Mr. Mister?
So the combination of unshakable fatigue and neck tenderness and tepidly comic head-voice has produced an overall sensation that approximates "feeling blue," but upon pausing and examining, isn't really. And this fool's blue, this fake depression, is producing its own mild confusion, which is floating on top of everything else, making things even weirder, but weirder only in the most boring possible way. Not even worth mentioning, really ... let alone typing up three, no four!, whole paragraphs about. And shit you're reading this. My god, just stop. Please go, go get a candy bar. Loosen your pants. Run around, take a dip.
No wait, come back here and rub my neck. Lower ... lower ... disco!