Turkey Gizzards, flies, & Spiders
Nice writing, Julie. Always a pleasure to read.
As one of the flies who dropped back into bed again today (Geez, Anona, that's a horrid metaphor for us--and so is the headless chicken, followed by the gross image of a guy wiping his nose. Excuse her "gentle optimism," Julie. She's so proudly pregnant, she doesn't realize she's pale and walking around with half her mind gone), I want to go on record as saying Sara is completely dead wrong about cooking dressing inside the turkey. Plus calling other sick people "babies" just because we'd rather not come in contact with bloody turkey gizzards and livers throughout all eternity shows her total lack of compassion and understanding of the human condition. (Sara's turned into this fun person to tease, Julie). At least Sara can get out of bed and get dressed. Whine. Whine. By the way, Sara, that post was good writing. Strong voice, so much better than the "sitting by the guy on couch" essay that I can't believe it's the same writer. I'm looking forward to your next essays.
And, Julie, I'm trying so hard to feel sad about the mess the Ed department made out Em Po's and Bryndie's academic life. And, I honestly do feel terrible for Bryndie. She really got a raw deal; it's going to be tough to get around, and I don't understand it.
However, this means we get to keep Emily for another two months, so secretly, just between you and me, I'm guiltily happy about her trouble. (Notice how Em's writing is so true to her own voice. I'd love to see her write an essay.) I just wish we could keep the rest who are leaving. . . .
Excuse me. There is a spider crawling on my couch . . . hmmmm. Couldn't find anything to kill it with except my cat's tail (who is sitting on my chest unconcerned that I can't identify this particular spider). So I smashed it (the spider--not the cat). But, since it's still wiggling, I flipped it with my finger, and now it's stuck on my painting of Indian ponies. . . . Guess what? After lying on this couch for almost a full week of nausea, and other unmentionables (I called in. Dan answered the phone. I said, "Hmmm. . . . Can I talk to a girl?" He was highly offended, but, believe me I spared him details), plus the endless weakness that makes me sweat from just looking in my closet for clothes to wear, the idea of working in my stuffy office is sounding like a vacation in the Caribbean.
Also, I owe Kaitlin a public apology for making fun of her four line poetry. It was a cynical slam against her lack of writing for the Center, though she did send me an e-mail joke, which I didn't get because she put the punch line half a mile down the letter; however, it did relate to my insomnia. Where does she get this stuff? Do you get this? What do you get when you cross an insomniac, an agnostic, and a dyslexic?
And, so, Julie, you truly thought you'd be a "lone writer"? Chan, It'll be at least a foursome.