one in five

My ego's white blood count is dangerously low and I've been radiating myself with words, words, words both written and spoken and now feel the weaker for it. Skinless. Vulnerable. Generally nauseated. (Or is it nauseous? I can never remember, and right now I'm too spent to suss it out.)

I'm sick of the sound of my own voice, but can't help, still, wanting someone to FIX me. Make it better. Kiss it away. Just hold me while I sleep. My surgeon friends can only look at me with grave, honest eyes and say it sucks. If you want, here are some needles. Try a scalpel. Doctor yourself.

Why must healing make me think of blood? I'm intrigued by the grotesque allure of leeches and therapy.

It helps to read good writing. I dream about running. I'm inspired by great art. And when I need stimulating conversation, I have places to go. These are all blessings. I'm trying to remember that blessings are good things, but they're almost too many to count and I have begun to push them before me like bricks in a wheel barrow. Ridiculous, I know. I really must learn to build stairs. In 2006, I will build stairs.

I call my cousin, Allyson, who is sorry for my downer day, though certainly not for me. She advises that I pick myself up, brush off my skirt and keep going. My dark prognosis swept aside -- four out of five dentists aren't always right -- the sound of her smile gives me back my breath.

momentary reversal. please ignore.

Ignore what she said. She loves the ladder. Loves being ranked and filed with Dewey Decimal precision, measured and ordered (category: unremarkable chicken), if for no other reason than in a pinch, it'll give her something to rail against. The injustice of it. The mistake of it. The joke of it.

Hardee.

Har.

Har.

Har.

"I said," she said, "NO cheese and NO sauce pizzas for EVERYONE!"

She would make a strict, but benevolent god.

As it is she doesn't even warrant a title. Not even a little one. Not that she wants one. But if everyone else is wearing one this season. . . . Titles, the new black.

It's all nonsense, really. Laughable. And she's just not original enough to appreciate it fully.

Her Buddhist friends are all about detachment. But they rank swank or jibber jobless. So there.

Did I tell you she met Bono?

Shouldn't that mean something?

Time!

29 hours. 47 minutes. 11 seconds.

Two cha-chas forward. One cha back. Two cha-chas forward. One cha back. Toes taped and shoes filled with blood, "Dancing is fun," she tells herself, gritting teeth, breathless. "Dancing is fun. Dancing is fun. Dancing is fun. Dancing is fun. Dancing is fun. . . . "