God, I'm miserable. I guess not getting sick for the last 24 months has brought some penance on me. I've got to make up for all that clean living somehow.
I've been thinking a lot about the power of speech in the last three days. Not having the ability to form words out loud will do that to you. I'm discovering that I take it for granted in ways that are probably relatively unique to my situation. I think we can all imagine what it would be like to not be able to speak in our day-to-day social lives. If you have a regular go-to-work-type job, I'm sure you can start to instantly think of ways it would make it tough to get things done. If you live with someone, you can probably envision the obstacles of not being able to tell them what you are feeling.
Okay, well, I live alone. I don't go to a job. I've never thought about the fact that I could go a full day without uttering a word. I value silence, I value being quiet and letting thoughts form in my head, to just listening to the vague buzz of nothing; yet, I've learned that I don't actually spend all that much time being quiet. I make noises, I talk to myself, I talk to my cat. Midway through day 2, I started to wonder how Sadie was feeling about all this. Outside of a couple of whispers, I wasn't yapping to her like I normally do. Did she think I was mad at her? Cats can tell when you're ill, and she has been fairly clingy and maternal. My hands have been immaculate since I came down with this cold, because she licks them clean every time she gets near them. But cats are also routine-based, so how disruptive is this to her?
I've had to go out. I had stuff that needed to be mailed, and today I had to do a pretty complete restocking: juice, soup, crackers, cough drops, cough medicine. Once I step out the door, I immediately feel separate. Even if I try to fake it, try to carry on and push the words out, the listener's face instantly tells me that it's not working. They can hear every painful scratch of each individual syllable scraping over my vocal chords, and it freaks them out. One guy I knew saw me on the bus and tried to talk to me, and as soon as he heard my femmey, sand-papered excuse for a voice, he stopped me. Anything I tried to say after that, he'd hold up his hands and halt me. People pity me. I feel like I am in that Twilight Zone episode, "Eye of the Beholder," where they have removed the patient's bandages and before she can see herself in the mirror, she knows the operation has not worked because the doctors and nurses can't mask their revulsion.
And yet, I couldn't even use it to my advantage. My two-for-one rental coupon at Hollywood Video expired yesterday, and the very obvious reason why I wasn't in to redeem it was not enough to buy me an extra day. Then I would have at lest gotten something else for the $3.75 I wasted on The Last Kiss.* So, you pity me, America, but not enough to give me coins when I beg on the street.
* Fuck you, Zach Braff. I'm tired of your movies where you play an asshole and because you handpicked some shitty, sensitive-boy soundtrack, it's supposed to make me think you have a soul. When you are such a bad actor you’re outclassed by the girl from The O.C., it's time to hang it up. And why do they bill this movie as a comedy? Watching a bunch of jerk guys who aren’t mature enough to commit to the women that are obviously too good for them is not my idea of a Friday night.
Current Workload: Freak vol. 3 rewrite, an article for Shojo Beat, and working on a pitch revisiting an old idea in a new venue
Current Soundtrack: Low, Drums & Guns
Current Mood: losing it
All text (c) 2007 Jamie S. Rich