The Neurosis Files

Hey Brad,

It’s the middle of the night and I’m wide awake. I should go clean out the fridge or twist myself into some yoga poses, but I’m emailing you instead.

How goes the search for Vivian’s birthday present? I think a handbag is better than hockey tickets, if you ever want to have sex again. You just need to choose the right one. It should be attractive, but organizationally sound. Roomy, but with special pockets for lip gloss and tampons. I suggest you start at Macy’s, then move on to Bloomingdale’s. From there you’ll want to hit Liz Claiborne, Ann Taylor, Nine West, Loehmann’s, Neiman Marcus and DSW.

I know it sounds like a lot, but trust me, you’ll be fine.

 

Strike that. You’ll be chum. Give me some dates and I’ll go with you.

I went to the dentist this morning. ”Who Wants To Be A Millionaire” was on the TV. You know how I know nothing about everything? Well, the planets must have been aligned just so, because I knew one answer after another. This, with my mouth clamped open, suction apparatus under my tongue, and cold water spraying my face. I begged God to let me shout the answers, but he was busy with the Super Bowl.

I know life isn’t fair, but being muted struck me as extreme.

I’ve been having trouble with my clients lately. I do my best to undermine them, but they keep getting better. Depressives, split personalities, hypochondriacs, flashers: They’re developing self-esteem, coping mechanisms, communication skills. Worse, they’re starting to think for themselves. Sometimes they even do healthy things! I’m telling you, many more professional successes and I’ll be shopping at the dollar store.

I think I’m going to watch TV now. There are a few episodes of “Mystery Diagnosis” I haven’t seen. Last week a guy had a tumor in his eardrum. It was really cool.

Let me know when you want to shop for purses.

Goodnight,

June

← The Mystery Of The Blue Ass |

I’m loathe to admit it, but the heat in my office occasionally gives rise to a generously proportioned zit on my ass. It’s usually nestled between the cheeks, hidden from view unless one goes looking. More often than not, I give my boyfriend a heads up. I’d rather warn him than contend with his expression of shock should he happen to stumble upon it.

Last week in the shower I noticed a large blue mark on my ass. It wasn’t biologically based, an errant vein or unnoticed bruise. Its hue was closer to neon spandex or a form of chemical waste. It was also water resistant.

Whatever its origin, it had no place on my ass.

“What could this be?” I asked my boyfriend.

“Huh? What could what be?”

The mark was in a difficult spot to view. Risking spinal cord injury, I leaned over, twisted to the right, and yanked at my flesh. Twist, pull. Twist, pull. ”Right there,” I said. “Can you see it?”

“Wow,” my boyfriend said. “That’s one hell of a zit.”

“Great,” I sighed. “That’s just great.”

I stood up, took a deep breath. “Everyone gets an ass zit every now and then,” I told myself. “Even Nicole Kidman.”

Soothed by the image of Nicole Kidman with an ass boil, I repositioned myself under a stronger lamp. ”Here,” I said, pointing to the offending area. “”Look. It’s right here.”

“Oh yeah,” my boyfriend said. “Now I see it.”

“What the hell is it?”

“Huh,” he said, scratching his head. ”I don’t know.”  Then, ”Have you worn anything bright lately? Anything that might have bled?”

Naturally, I’d examined every blue to periwinkle object in my apartment as if on CSI.

No shade compared to my ass tattoo.

“No,” I said. ”Not even close.”

Clearly, the answer wasn’t going to present itself just then. Jake and I shrugged, turned on the TV and went to bed.

This morning I flopped down on the couch with my coffee. I looked once, then again. There it was on the cushion: the residue of a blue M&M. I suddenly recalled falling asleep there while eating candy two nights prior.

Apparently, a blue M&M has made its way to my ass.

Apparently, I’d rolled around on it.

I do not relish the confession that I molested an M&M in my sleep. Any more than I do shaving one leg and forgetting the other, plugging an extension cord into itself or wondering where the hell I parked. And yet. . .

I manage to make them all happen.

← The Password | Insomnia: An Email To My Guy Friend →

September, 2012:

“I’m sorry,” my friend tells me. ”That’s the one thing about this computer. It asks for a password that I don’t remember.” She sighs. ”Okay. First try the basics. Welcome, user, admin. Stuff like that. If they don’t work, enter my initials, birthday, or house number. Fiddle with different combinations. Throw in some uppercase letters and the numeral 1. As in, Welcome1. cm2076ADMIN. Stuff like that.”

My computer is in the shop, where it could remain up to five days. My friend has lent me her old Mac.

Furiously, I’m writing this down.

“cm2076ADMIN. . .”

“Yes,” my friend assures me. “It’s something like that.” Then, “If you run out of ideas, give me a call.”

“Okay,” I reply. “But I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”

The interesting thing is, I believe this. I believe there is no permutation too complex or obscure to elude me. Not because I think myself clever – I prove otherwise as naturally as I breathe – but because I’m pathologically focused, batshit compulsive, and known for courting futility.

At this moment, my BlackBerry is my sole technological bridge to the world. There are messages I’m not receiving. Statistics to which I have no access. Facebook “likes” I’m not on top of. And, being unable to write posts or stories, my texts are becoming verbose.

A rat in a cage with a single lever, that which dispenses the very basics of survival, I continue to press.

And press.

Could it be M1076welcomeuser1?

m1076WELcomeUser?

USERadmin4129?

cm4129user1?

I will figure this out.

← The Messages: Doom Of The Betta Fish | The Mystery Of The Blue Ass →