A lot has happened since I dropped out except for the occasional "Hey, I'm still alive!" post. Lots of braining issues and belated acclimation to this bizarre city. It may sound crazy, but I occasionally still go through prolonged phases where I think things like,
"I have to leave my apartment?" or, "What do you mean I have to shower?" or, "I could go to the grocery store, but these frozen meatballs could last me a few more days if I ration them."
|AND there's sriracha? NO WAY I'M LEAVING NOW.|
Yeah. Well. While I like to believe that I'm a pillar of strength and ambivalence, I still find myself susceptible to periods of unreasonable feelings or worse, very little feelings at all. I was planning to explore that in a funny and not-so-downtrodden way until two things happened: First: Allie Brosh already did this in such a way that no one, even an Olympic gold medal psychologist, could explain it better (she's a keeper! Buy her book!) Second: I got sidetracked.
First I decided to do my dishes. Not only does this activity take you away from pressing creative matters, but eliminating the source of funky odors that waft about your apartment can only help you be more productive. I must wash all of my dishes by hand, so I like to watch an episode of 30 Rock or some other funny and engaging sitcom that I can focus on instead of the sludge in my sink.
I completed the dishes before the end of the episode, so I brought the computer back into my main room and pressed on for a few more minutes. Then I decided,
"I need to do something to help me focus. I don't think that Tracey Jordan is going to help me create anything."
I like to clear my head whenever I hit a particularly gnarly block in a writing session. What better way to clear your head than some time to yourself that yields a rush of endorphins? Especially when your hypothalamus is all, "Haha, NOPE."
|"I was able to achieve completion with some rigorous nipple play."|
So taken was he that he leaped into air, pushing his body off of the wall and sprinting across the room, tail all a-fluff. Before I knew it, he skid across my desk, unpausing the episode of 30 Rock and unleashing the sound of Liz Lemon as she screamed,
"CHOCOLATE, CHOCOLATE, CHOCOLATE!"
Her voice flooded into my ears at exactly the same second that I achieved orgasm.
There wasn't even any room for my brain to process what I was hearing and adjust the peak accordingly. Satisfactory self completion: forever associated with Liz Lemon re-enacting a Cathy strip.
I felt horrified at first.
But then I laughed. And then I kept laughing. Pretty soon my chest hurt from laughing so hard.
So I decided to write about it instead.
I'm curious - have any of you had unfortunate accidents of this nature?