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  1. It’s officially Wednesday, my day to write a blog entry. It’s 4:00 a.m. I have an hour before Samantha wakes up, checks her email, and sees whether or not I sent her my blentry (coining that term NOW. Blog + entry = blentry. Shut up. It’s my word and my blentry so I can make shit UP.)  So much for my getting my writing done early and patting myself on the back – right now I am slightly nauseated, naked on my couch (why is it always so bleeding hot in my damn apartment/hovel?) and the wireless keyboard is creating a sweat-splorch on my crotchal-region. Fucking electronics make the room even hotter. If I were to invent a new computer, it would double as a wee air-conditioning unit. It would not only revolutionize the computer world and save a bajillion motherboards from cooking data into useless carbon, it would lower the Earth’s average atmospheric temperature by 10 degrees, thus saving the planet from global warming and my sweat-splorched ladyparts. You are welcome. I’d like my Nobel Prize in cash; small denominations please.

    As I sit here in my altogether, shvitzing (look it UP, weird goyim who don’t mix it up with the Chosen Peeps), I am surrounded by a near-clinically insane number of empty boxes, blorby wads of bubble wrap, piles of unread magazines and unope’d (Shakespeare) mail, scattered stacks of clean clothes, giant bags of yet-to-be-done laundry, un-unpacked suitcase and carry-on, flotsam and jetsam, cat hair, cat food kibbles, receipts, paperwork, unfiled taxes, and pens. Many, many, many pens. I hoard pens. Which is an anagram for O hard penis. I enjoy anagrams. I do not enjoy my mess, but here I sit, and shvit and shit.

    Crap, it’s almost 4:30.  I should be sleeping. I don’t sleep at night in the summertime. Something about being hot and unable to afford a 3-digit electric bill keeps me from sawing logs. Being broke in general causes me to stay completely vigilant for most of the night, wondering if the IRS will actually imprison me for the $329.87 I likely owe them from 2009, and if they do, will I secretly be relieved to have nothing to do all day but read old romance novels and get my hairs did by my new prison-sisters. My prison-sisters would likely school me for writing “get my hairs did.” And I would deserve it. It sounds totally racist coming from me, but in that snarky, I’m-so-down-with-the-lingo way, which is even worse. My prison-sisters would force ME to make the Pruno every week, just for pretending to be “street.” Gurrrrl, no you did NOT just write that shit.

    I also cannot sleep as I am in love with a boy who I cannot have, for reasons too complicated and farcical to write in this blentry. Pretty much all comedy and tragedy is built around the theme of frustrated desire. Songs, sonnets, plays, poems, films, filmstrips, slideshows, Home Shopping Network, Howard Stern, Ted Bundy, the election year 2000, Manolo Blahniks, and all competitive sporting events are attributed to striving for the impossible, and either succeeding (George W. Bush) or failing (idem -- which is similar to ibid, but seriously, use Google for that shit.) I am managing to do both; that is, I am succeeding at failing very well in love. Or, perhaps, I am failing to succeed very well in love.  I am convinced that I’m living in a perpetual wrinkle in time, much like a YouTube clip whose audio has not synced with the video. My timing is so deliciously off that I arrive at the church AFTER Katherine Ross has left the church, but before the rice is thrown, so I can experience the exquisite agony of lugging around the crucifix I tore off the wall, shvitzing and sighing and making a nuisance of myself.  A schlemiel. Schlimazel.

    But, see, something comes from this tsuris (okay, I am facing a beat-down from my prison-sisters for my frontin’ as a Jew. That’s right, I said Jew. So sue me.) The ability to laugh at the ridiculousness, the mess, the hairballs and Blahniks and fake-ass intellectual posing and latin and Yiddish and ohhhhhhh  no, there is no moral, no happy ending, I don’t believe in THAT CRAP.  Life does not get sewn up neatly by 5:00 a.m. motherfuckers. It is 5:32, and as usual I am LATE. I am MESSY. I am perpetually late and MESSY. THAT is real. 

    And my swamp-crotched ladyparts are ready to cool off by the fan. The FAN, I say. No high-falutin’ AC for ole Really McReal. And I have a comedy set I need to prepare, which, if I am being REAL, means I will promptly fall asleep as I think of the most hilarious set in the history of the world, and awake 40 minutes before I am supposed to be onstage.  And yes, it’s 5:45.
    TRUTH! (throws mic to floor.)

    p.s. I can totally hear Amy’s husband slurping his damn cereal. SHUT UP OVER THERE. AND WIPE THOSE SPIT STRINGS!!! GROSS!!

  2. 4 comments:

    1. JenHeyden said...

      Helene! Thank you for this. -Fellow goyim who mixes it with the Chosen Peeps

    2. PHS said...

      Sic transit gloria kvetchi, oy.

    3. Yipee! I'm glad you used "idem". After a year of writing several college papers on varying subjects I've amased a huge amount of knowledge I'll never get to use. But today hooray! I understood what you wrote!

      Great post Helene. Life doesn't get sewn up easily ever! 5:00 or any other time. I'm glad I get to tag along this messy unsewn ride with you.

    4. Lady Ha Ha said...

      Being late is totally cool. Unless of course, you are me and neglected to use birth control twice. But hey, they're good kids now. Expensive, but good.

      Great read!

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