julian calendars . . . pshaw

September 30, 2012

It’s been a couple of weeks since my last treatment ended.  Usually, I come here on the heels of the month’s treatment to comment on the noxiousness of the event relative to previous rounds—relative, for that matter, to the noxiousness of any noxious event in my life to date.

But here I am, on the verge of October, having made no comment.  Most likely I am only here now because of an irrational obeisance to Gregorian delineation—as if the up-flip of my 2012 Tolkien calendar (fabulously illustrated by Cor Blok) augurs something beyond the ever-nearing bestowment of a 2013 Tolkien calendar, as if at midnight (hopefully while I’m asleep but most likely during infinite reprisals of some Nicki Minaj chorus or another) there will be a shift in the tectonics of my essential being which will create a cataclysm in the current self thereby Wile.-E.-Coyote-ing these comments I am presently typing if I do not type them today.

Irrational.

Regardless of the reason, I am here to state, for the record and in one uncertain term, that this month’s round suhhh-uh-uhhh-uh-uhhh-uh-uhcked.

Here is a list of things that have sucked more in my days (in ascending order of suckiness):

*Appendicitis

*ACL Reconstruction Physical Therapy

*Seizures

*Brain Surgery

*Infinite reprisals of some Nicki Minaj chorus or another  

Here is a list of times when I’ve been more of a baby:

*When I was a baby

So there you have it—barely under the wire of September.  Just think, tomorrow you can be anything you want to be.  At midnight, the earth itself will be annihilated and will rematerialize in a split-second.  I, for one, am glad October is October because I love October.  September 30^th, meh, November 1^st, okay, but October  . . . that’s what I’m talking about.

untimely self-pity

January 16, 2012

I have chosen Martin Luther King, Jr. Day (unwittingly until just now) to complain of impatience. Or, even sissier than that, of boredom. Oh, Moses, shall we gather!

So let’s conclude (before we begin) that there will never be a Jonathan H. Scott day—“official” mid-week, or “observed” some Monday in December. No sculptor will ever ask me to tilt my chin a little more or quit grimacing for Pete’s sake. No clamoring throng will ever send hush-waves to the back of an auditorium heralding the commencement of my righteous address.

Now let’s begin. Oh, woe, woe, woe is today, is tomorrow, is all of eternity. I shall never walk straight again. Sigh. I shall forever count the hours, minutes, seconds until my next nap. Alas and woe and sigh.

When, Lord, will you set me in the sand so I can smoosh my own footprints. Moan. Oh, for sand between my toes, in the cleavage of my butt, irremovable from my scalp.

What shall I do today? I shall bathe for no public. I shall read for no retention. I shall eat for no metabolism. I shall nap. Within the hour . . . call it 55 minutes . . . and counting . . .

Woe, the quotidian ploddiness of this mighty oppression. You Red Sea, you muddy Jordan—segregate! Oh, let me pass this titanic trial of wishing I could play a little golf today but not being able to on account of all these woes I’ve been talking about and I bet I could mention a bunch more, I’m not gonna, but I could, you betcha I could, but I only got 53 minutes till my nap and first I gotta take a bath then I gotta read some, then lunch. Plus, yeah plus you gotta take into account that some family member might call with words of encouragement and support which could take, geez, all day maybe.

Oh, Aaron! Oh, Hur! Steady my arms! Oh Moses, Moses me. Sigh.