I'm sitting here slightly appalled at my own fleshyness.
Loose skin of a mottled, unpleasant hue and a somewhat rubbery
texture. And what, if anything, do I immediately do to deal
with this problem: I sit before the computer typing about it.
Really I started by checking my email quickly while pinching at
a fold on my shoulder. Maybe because of the temperature in here
(low fifties, but in LA. it should be warmer) my skin is a
slightly purple color. It's splotchy and has a scaly bit on the
upper arm that looks like it's probably ringworm. Great. More
ringworm. I did so enjoy all that I've had to date.
It's two in the afternoon, and what's worse than the fact
that I haven't gone out and done anything is the fact that I've
been lamely toying with the idea of maybe going to Hollywood or
the observatory almost from the moment that I awoke (loosing
further points for the fact that when I awoke was simply not
that long ago).
I've been up long enough to eat a PB and J and to drink a
little more of the diet coke I started sometime last night. I'm
not good at accomplishment; I didn't even finish the soda.
Further depressing me is the knowledge that I need to get
up early tomorrow for class and that requires going to bed
early. I have unfortunately now shifted my sleeping schedule to
a two to twelve rotation, leaving me tired in the middle of yet
another day that I won't exploit. But really, the problem isn't
sleep. And it isn't sitting here typing. It's Sedaris'
depressing and un-Television-Audience-friendly observation that
". . . people are lazy." Sickening sad truth.
Take for example the Los Angeles Times. I subscribed at a
discount rate some weeks ago at school. The clerk was too lazy
to fill out the form, so, little to my surprise, no papers began
arriving in the prescribed two to five day period. I wasn't
shocked and I wasn't upset. Since he hadn't done the form, I
received no bill for the papers. The sad part of the tale
begins a week ago, when I start receiving (I think) the Times.
It just sits on the steps at the bottom. Some days it's
position clearly indicates it was meant to be on the stairs, my
interpretation then being that it is intended for a stairs-
utilizing tenant. Some days its position clearly favors the
downstairs unit. What I'm driving at is that I really have no
idea if the paper is mine. The first one arrived more or less
on the doormat of the lady downstairs, but I figured that it was
mine. I took it and those that followed it regardless of
position. Some days, I don't pick it up right away, and someone
else does for me. I never received a bill. I don't know if I'm
stealing her papers, but really I don't care. The part that
guilts me most is the now growing pile of unread Los Angeles
Times increasing by my door. I read the front section the first
day and found it so depressing that I've not had much motivation
to read anymore.
But there it is again. I don't have much motivation. I'm
lazy. I'm making about as exciting a bit of life-progress as a
flat stone. Now the question is: will I go out today?
(
geocities.com/soho)