I regret using the word depression in my last post. I did say it was far too strong for what I was going through (which is what a psychologist might call 'a rough couple of weeks'), but I think it gave people images of sleeping pills, alcohol, and a bathtub.
I currently own none of those things. And I'm not depressed. And I'm heartily sorry for these my misdoings and for the Anglican liturgy rising up within me like a latent superpower.
After Butters told me to stop being a big baby and I wrote my last post, I really was feeling better – just due to the identification of the cause of my lethargy – until I noticed a list of messages from friends wanting to make sure I was okay in the nicest way possible.
Which is nice.
But having been raised with the Stop snivelling or I'll give you something to snivel about method of reflection, I find that works best (most likely because, uh, I am not depressed). Also, my new music is the equivalent of velvet to my neurons (I only wish work had the same effect).
On Saturday, Grandpa (who is with Grandma at an international conference that sounds like an intestinal parasite) also texted, either to find out how I was doing or to find out how the city was doing – the latter would have been a bad bet, as I try not to leave my bedroom on Saturdays, much less the apartment. As I was trying to respond to him (and failing as I don't have his number and am still flummoxed as to how he reached me – possibly via heaven), my phone began buzzing again. Having already missed two calls from [null] phone numbers due to my private dance party and worried that I was causing worry, I quickly answered.
“Hello?! I'm sorry, I--”
“Hello. This is [your stalker.]”
Buzzard pus.
And then I hung up. It was instinctive and I'm not proud of it, but there it is.
Naturally, he called again.
“Uh, HI, YEah, THE connECtion ISN't--” I grabbed one of the parasitic plastic bags that were slowly engulfing our home and began desperately massaging it into the receiver because I saw this technique in a movie and it was either that or throw my phone off our fourth-floor balcony.
(In case this has not been made abundantly clear, I'm too cheap to buy a new $12 phone and $1 SIM every time I don't want to answer my phone.
Mainly because this is every time it rings.)
“Yeah, I just wanted to tell you I'll come and see you on Monday.”
Do buzzards have other bodily fluids? “STILL can't HEar yOU, BYE!”
And then I allowed myself a moment to desperately wonder why my stalker's wife hadn't closed his family jewels in the family safe. Since that was my earlier prayer (along with my likewise failed method of ignoring his phone calls), I have since begun praying that he wants money, which I would find more comprehensible than literally any other reason he could possibly have for wanting to talk to me.
(If you're wondering how I'm so familiar with my stalker's wife – we met on the street once and she'd walked away without saying a word. Not one word. In this culture, I imagine that's the equivalent of a slap in the face or not offering food or something equally heinous. This was not helped by the fact that she'd been glaring at me for quite some time before he noticed her and stuttered out a somewhat shell-shocked introduction. I wasn't sure if I could manage to do justice to Bill Clinton's infamous denial in Swahili, so I said I was on my way to church, tried not to whimper, and stared between the two of them as if they were playing a game of volleyball that only I could see. As they were both mainly still and silent, I probably presented as a case of acute bovine appendicitis. If I were Congolese, I'd be fearing a sorcerous spell between the shoulder blades right now. Instead I'm just scared to death of ever seeing her or her sodding husband again.)
The morning started out wonderfully, though. I'd stayed in my room, alternatively pretending I was a rapper and watching episodes of The Flash, briefly venturing forth once to get lunch and inadvertently catching a glimpse of a shirtless Butters putting all of his effort (and most of himself) into cleaning one of our large buckets of the ever-present silt in our water with too much soap and our mop handle. I tried to contain my hysterical laughter and quickly escaped to the relative sanity of my bedroom before he could ask for help (which I'd unwillingly offered the night before; I believe this is what we pay The Phoenix for – if Butters wants to do it for free, so help him, God).
Sunday was wonderfully exhausting.
I currently own none of those things. And I'm not depressed. And I'm heartily sorry for these my misdoings and for the Anglican liturgy rising up within me like a latent superpower.
After Butters told me to stop being a big baby and I wrote my last post, I really was feeling better – just due to the identification of the cause of my lethargy – until I noticed a list of messages from friends wanting to make sure I was okay in the nicest way possible.
Which is nice.
But having been raised with the Stop snivelling or I'll give you something to snivel about method of reflection, I find that works best (most likely because, uh, I am not depressed). Also, my new music is the equivalent of velvet to my neurons (I only wish work had the same effect).
On Saturday, Grandpa (who is with Grandma at an international conference that sounds like an intestinal parasite) also texted, either to find out how I was doing or to find out how the city was doing – the latter would have been a bad bet, as I try not to leave my bedroom on Saturdays, much less the apartment. As I was trying to respond to him (and failing as I don't have his number and am still flummoxed as to how he reached me – possibly via heaven), my phone began buzzing again. Having already missed two calls from [null] phone numbers due to my private dance party and worried that I was causing worry, I quickly answered.
“Hello?! I'm sorry, I--”
“Hello. This is [your stalker.]”
Buzzard pus.
And then I hung up. It was instinctive and I'm not proud of it, but there it is.
Naturally, he called again.
“Uh, HI, YEah, THE connECtion ISN't--” I grabbed one of the parasitic plastic bags that were slowly engulfing our home and began desperately massaging it into the receiver because I saw this technique in a movie and it was either that or throw my phone off our fourth-floor balcony.
(In case this has not been made abundantly clear, I'm too cheap to buy a new $12 phone and $1 SIM every time I don't want to answer my phone.
Mainly because this is every time it rings.)
“Yeah, I just wanted to tell you I'll come and see you on Monday.”
Do buzzards have other bodily fluids? “STILL can't HEar yOU, BYE!”
And then I allowed myself a moment to desperately wonder why my stalker's wife hadn't closed his family jewels in the family safe. Since that was my earlier prayer (along with my likewise failed method of ignoring his phone calls), I have since begun praying that he wants money, which I would find more comprehensible than literally any other reason he could possibly have for wanting to talk to me.
(If you're wondering how I'm so familiar with my stalker's wife – we met on the street once and she'd walked away without saying a word. Not one word. In this culture, I imagine that's the equivalent of a slap in the face or not offering food or something equally heinous. This was not helped by the fact that she'd been glaring at me for quite some time before he noticed her and stuttered out a somewhat shell-shocked introduction. I wasn't sure if I could manage to do justice to Bill Clinton's infamous denial in Swahili, so I said I was on my way to church, tried not to whimper, and stared between the two of them as if they were playing a game of volleyball that only I could see. As they were both mainly still and silent, I probably presented as a case of acute bovine appendicitis. If I were Congolese, I'd be fearing a sorcerous spell between the shoulder blades right now. Instead I'm just scared to death of ever seeing her or her sodding husband again.)
The morning started out wonderfully, though. I'd stayed in my room, alternatively pretending I was a rapper and watching episodes of The Flash, briefly venturing forth once to get lunch and inadvertently catching a glimpse of a shirtless Butters putting all of his effort (and most of himself) into cleaning one of our large buckets of the ever-present silt in our water with too much soap and our mop handle. I tried to contain my hysterical laughter and quickly escaped to the relative sanity of my bedroom before he could ask for help (which I'd unwillingly offered the night before; I believe this is what we pay The Phoenix for – if Butters wants to do it for free, so help him, God).
Sunday was wonderfully exhausting.
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At the risk of sounding desperate - PLEASE WRITE TO ME!