My Laziness

10/25/2003 3:16 PM

Did somebody say 2500 words? A day? Me? Nah. Couldn’t be. I wouldn’t commit to something as ridiculous as that. What, do you think I’m stupid or something? Don’t answer that. All right, so I promised–no, VOWED–to write 2500 words a day. I didn’t mention WHICH days, did I? So I’m off the hook, then.

Just kidding! Ha, I sure got you, didn’t I? Okay, the truth is, I’ve been sick. Waking up with migraines every day, throwing up, diarr–well, you don’t want to know the details. It’s been awful, and I’m not so sure it’s over. Every day I think it’s over when I start to feel better after a few hours, but then I go to bed and wake up at 5 am, sicker than a dog. I hate it. It’s awful. If this is what life is going to be like for me, I tell ya, I’m gonna have to do a lot more reading on Buddhist philosophy about taking the suffering out of pain, because right now I ain’t there.

I have some friends with MCS who are a LOT sicker than me, and when I’m going through one of my headaches, I really wonder why they haven’t blown their brains out yet. At least I feel well half the time. They never feel well any more. Some of them are even in danger of starving to death because they have lost the ability to tolerate almost ALL food. And even water. Trust me, you do not want to get this illness. Stay away from pesticides, please? And natural gas. And formaldehyde. And chemicals in general. More important, protect your children from chemicals. Do you realize that the law requires you and your kids to SLEEP on bedding that is treated with carcinogenic flame retardant chemicals? Yeah: Stop the fire, kill the kid. Think of SIDS, people. Think of the asthma epidemic. I’m not kidding, this is serious.

Okay LaVonne, stop this right now. You are not writing for an audience here. You are just filling the page with words in order to get in shape for the big marathon. Nobody is going to read this. Especially you, if you’re smart. So just write something and don’t get on your high horse.

MY high horse! What about YOURS? What do you care what I write about? Who cares if I get on a soapbox–yes, I think that’s what you meant, isn’t it? Get off your soapbox, not your high horse.

Oy. I’m arguing with myself about what I say to myself now. It’s going from bad to worse here. All I wanted to do was whine about my headaches and now look.

449 words, 2051 to go

Okay, rather than rack my brain for more incredibly amusing things to say about nothing, why not tell a story? What the hell.

A long time ago in a galaxy far away…well, in a CITY far away, actually… and it wasn’t THAT long ago, only 40-something years or so…

…there lived a girl who didn’t have a clue. [That would be me, but we'll just pretend this is fiction, shall we? That's what fiction is after all--pretending, n'est pas?] This girl could not understand what people were saying to her, or why they acted the way they did. Nothing made sense, not a bit.

Oh, crap. I’m too lazy to write a real story that requires actual thought, imagination and–um, work. That was the girl’s problem, you see. She was amazingly, incredibly, STUPENDOUSLY lazy. It was a thing to behold, the eighth wonder of the world, her laziness, and she loved it and nurtured it like a prize pony.

And she couldn’t understand why nobody else appreciated her lovely laziness, because it really was wonderful. I mean, lying in bed staring out the window at the trees, dreaming of all sorts of things–what could be better than that? Watching Twilight Zone and The Outer Limits on TV until she couldn’t tell the difference between the tube, dreams and reality. That’s what her mother always said to her.

“You can’t tell the difference between the tube, dreams and reality. I’m getting worried about you.”

Yeah, whatever. Only teenagers didn’t use the phrase, “Yeah, whatever” in those days. I think they said something like, “Honestly, Mother!” But you get the point.

The girl simply did not understand what her mother was so worked up about. And what was the big deal about cleaning her room? She knew where to find everything, most of the time. There was even a path that led through the mess on the floor from her bed to the dresser to the closet to the door. So what was the problem anyway?

790 words, 1210 to go