Today I educated my therapist on the proper pronunciation of “fellatio”. I guess it is a word she has seen but never used herself, which is kind of hard to believe, but I don’t know why she would feign ignorance over such a thing. The matter came up with regard to a confusingly unpleasant memory concerning my mother, but segued from there to happier memories of the fun times we had looking up words in the dictionary, and reading the telephone book.
We talked about other things. I still get junk mail addressed to my dad. The discretely packeted gay porn mailings seem to have stopped. Now all I get is Hillbilly music catalogues, like the one that arrived today.
Changed my mind about the “too busy to die” story. I was going the more obvious route by making it a tale of how the protagonist planned every detail of her suicide, down to cancelling the newspaper delivery. I was using bits from my father’s decision making process but find that it makes for a constipated narrative. I think that instead I will open with “Jane was too busy to die. Her husband, John, was too fat to stop eating. Their children, Mary and Jack, were too stupid to stop learning. The differences among the members of this uniquely conflicted nuclear family allayed each others’ character flaws.”
Yeah, that’s a Pulitzer winner right there.
I read a bit of Ezra Pound today. And Thomas Pynchon. And Rushdie.
I slept 11 hours last night. Why? I don’t even know but it felt like I could have slept 11 more. Thinking about my blood work again and how perfect the results were. I was thinking I had cheated some by not drinking for a few weeks beforehand, but blood work done a few months earlier, when I had been drnking as usual, was basically the same. How do I get away with it? I’ve known others who drink far more than I who have asked themselves the same question. It has been since May of last year that I did not get away with it. But that was an aberration. Webster’s beautifully defines that word for this context: “unsoundness or disorder of the mind”.
