I receive a remarkable amount of commentary, considering I only have seven readers. It's all from the same people of course, which is how I know there's still only seven of you.
However, I'm certain that the questions and observations from my loyal handful of fans are similar in nature to other literary icons.
The true literary greats must have had to grapple with these same questions throughout their writing careers, much like I am.
What's with all the brackets all the time? Have you thought about seeing another doctor? Are you sure that's really such a good idea, and you really are kind of a hot mess aren't you?
I look forward to the day when Mags Atwood and I are hangin' some place, all literary and stuff, pounding our beers, and I can finally ask how she personally deals with the hot mess question.
She'll go into some lengthy observation about how our neurotic gifts feature in greek mythology, and inevitably link to the world economy by way of pine cones, windswept prairie and cleavage.
I won't have a clue what she's talking about and will likely nod off half-way through as I do with most things by Atwood. I'll be roused however, when Mags is handed another Booker Prize just for talking.
(In case you are wondering, the answers to the above mentioned most frequently asked Bambi questions are as follows: Shut it. Yes. Maybe? and With a Vengeance.)
Quite often I hear from one or more of my seven readers that they're forced to read this blog to find out what's really going on with me. These are people I actually converse with in real life, and I imagine this would be annoying as all hell.
Annoying or not, I really can't help it.
The reasons I'm more likely to share this way are probably the same reasons Stephen King writes. If he were to share what was in his head all of the time through normal conversation, it would freak people the fuck out.
For example, if somebody were to ask me "what's new?" right now, polite coversation dictates a socially acceptable response. I might say. "Not too much," or I might say, "Call me back because I'm watching Glee."
Those same conversations might not go as well if I were to provide an honest answer to the innocuous "what's new?" question.
For example, I've lost the ability to poo. I'm not even joking. I've been prescribed anti-depressants, and while I wait to see if they're effective or not for depression, other side-effects are becoming clear.
For one, it decreases my appetite. This is good news, and I'm already down 35 pounds with the help of Weight Watchers and 100 calorie ice cream sandwiches. Secondly, this drug acts as a stimulant for the female libido. This is not actually good news. When one's only current sexual relationship occurs with somebody else's husband, it's really, really not good news.
(Who knew that being the third person in a somewhat open marriage could get complicated? Or angst-inducing? I know. I'm just as shocked as you are.)
I also get dizzy when I stand up now, but that could be because I'm tall and should really be wearing flat shoes.
While the lesser side-effects are managable, losing the ability to poo is rather alarming. Constipation is listed as a side-effect, but it's not as if I'm constipated. There's just no urge, and there really doesn't seem to be a need. Apparently, I've just outgrown this particular bodily function.
Being the hypochondriac that I am, I've started tracking just how long I can go (or not) before having to be admitted to emergency with the world's most ridiculous problem short of having a gerbil stuck in my rectum.
So far I'm at five days and counting. I would see a doctor, but I'm afraid he'll tell me my colon is conflicted, which would just make sense given my uterus has only recently stopped being confused - the official medical diagnosis.
On the bright side, my bathroom trips are always very quick now, and if I do take a long time it really is because I'm fixing my hair or flossing. Just the same, it doesn't seem like a sustainable situation.
Obviously I'm concerned, but if somebody were to walk up and ask me how I'm doing right now I'd probably keep that to myself.
Amazingly, despite just posting on the interwebs that I am no longer able to poo, there are always things I can't actually write about in my blog. I may want to very badly, but somewhere out there I sense teams of lawywer simultaneously having conniptions at the thought.
I generally try to avoid identifying anybody who has the misfortune of appearing in my writing too specifically, and some times that would be unavoidable if I said what I really want to say. Obviously between my bowels and my writing, this is an enormous amount of building pressure.
While it's true Margaret Atwood and I will never, ever be mentioned in the same sentence unless it's because I ran her over with my car and news crews captured footage, we could still have a lot to talk about should we meet. And if I really wanted to tell her something, I would just send Mags a link to my blog.
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