This week, I've been avoiding everything that makes me happy: running, writing, eating sensibly, etcetera. (Notice I put 'running' before 'writing', causing me to wonder ever more deeply about my decision to 'become a writer'.) Which is another way of saying that I'm probably depressed. Excellent. This is how I am when I'm left to my own devices (i.e. unemployed). This morning I read my book about murders in turn of the century Paris (featuring real daguerrotypes of hacked up cadavers!!) in bed, then pulled the covers up over my head and shut my eyes against l'existence. I was then greeted by what has to be the single most depressing noise known to man: the groaning, nasally whine of the weed-whacker. It is the sound of progress, of man's lawn and therefore his soul being beautified, of a solitary individual out there, under the sky and generally in the world, trimming edges and pesky unsightlies--the sound of purpose, however small. And I just wanted to run out there and break the whacker over my knee. Quiet, life!
Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith is coming out, featuring Stephen Glass as Darth Vader. I don't know how anyone can see Shattered Glass and look at Hayden Christensen the same ever again. Creepiest character ever, and I include Jar Jar Binks in that evaluation. When I see H.C. interviewed now, about Star Wars, I want to hide from my television, lest his boggle eyes and razor-sharp cheekbones get me. (No, I can't simply turn it off, hiding is much more dramatic and suited to my purposes.) (Incidentally, Peter Sarsgaard: totally awesome.)
I'm a tad ill, but it's the kind of ill which won't make up its mind. The sickness hovers on the periphery, slowing my usual genius to mere wit, but never getting serious enough to permit me to lie around in baths and make melodramatic comments about how my father never told me I was pretty. The best this semi-sick lets me do is make melodramatic sneezes, complete with clenched fists and after-moaning. Its procrastination is the utmost of gall: my depression inside out. Bring on the Ben & Jerry's, bitches!
We journeyed to Chicago last weekend, where our relationship was strained by the realization that shit's expensive. We found an apartment, however, two blocks from Wrigley Field, inexplicably smack in the middle of the Gay District. You can see Wrigley Field from our dining room window, which, needless to say, is So Cool. We found ourselves in the ghetto more than once during our apartment search, which Ben handled with signature calm as he shrieked, "Walk faster! Walk faster!" We're the Masters of Being Out of Our Comfort Zone. Just ask us.
Chicago is cold. And so is my heart. Top that.