Gimmeoxygen's Blog

December 3, 2009

Kara and the Art of Brooding

Filed under: Uncategorized — Ruby Dabling @ 4:48 am
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I’m tired of writing about my (yeeech) relatives.  Let slumbering Neanderthals lie…

Spent the even ing with friends.  One of my favorite people here – Kara- was there.  The girl is almost too funny – I’m sitting here with sore ribs after spending a few hours with her and the rest.

She was talking about her prolific love life – she has the soul of a rabbit in estrus, and the face of a blonde angel, so Kara is a busy, busy girl – and said she wasn’t going to go out with anyone who isn’t fat or freakish-looking anymore.  We asked why, of course, and she said, “I’ve discovered something great!  If you’re with a fat or funny-looking guy, you can fart any time you want to because everyone automatically assume it was him!  Imagine the freedom!”  Because we encouraged her by laughing, she went on but became a little too graphic for me to write about here.  She had us falling off our chairs, though, and it felt so goood to laugh after spending the week with the People from Planet Polyester.

It felt good to go out, too.  That doesn’t mean I’ll become a social butterfly – I was the first to leave, and glad to get home again – but perhaps it means I’m finally getting tired of isolating myself.  I don’t know, though.  I’ve gotten quite good at brooding, and now that it’s cold enough I can sit in front of the fire and really get my brood on.  Do you know anyone who dresses to brood?  You do now.  It’s best done in the most comfy of pajamas, and a pair of red socks; and a shabby, but beloved, afghan is essential.  I take my brooding seriously.  All part of my training to become a hopelessly complicated and thoroughly neurotic recluse when I grow up.  Once I’ve complete the course in Brooding, I’ll take up Regrets, and it’s attendant, Self-Pity.  That’s when the fun really starts, I hear.

The reason it’s taking me so long to complete my training is because I’m not unhappy.  It’s very hard to brood when you’re not unhappy, let me tell you, so I’m sure you can appreciate the effort I need to put into it.  I did find out, though, that there’s so much global misery I can brood about that, so I don’t need to be unhappy myself.  That might not count, or seem like cheating, to those who have earned their brooding the old-fashioned way, but I’m young enough that I can still entertain hopes of being beaten-down and thoroughly crushed by life, although for that I suppose I’d have to become involved with a seriously abusive man (or go back east and live with my family), and I’m not keen on either option.

How is it possible to write all those words without saying anything?  (Hannah, I wish I had your depth, but I’m as shallow as a sun puddle…).  I’m going to end this, make a cup of tea, and get a pair of red socks out.  Practice, babies, practice!

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