I'm Dirty, Sweet, and I'm Your Girl
Even T.Rex's "Bang a Gong"--the cure for all ills that stem from self-pity--can't make me feel any better about being inside a windowless office on the first real spring day, with real sun and real cloudless skies, and even a lovely breeze, for Christ's sake.
I was going out of my mind by 9:15 this morning. That phrase "climbing the walls" never truly resonated with me until right now; I'm fighting the urge to actually dig my fingernails into the plaster and claw away for no reason besides sheer, endless, bottomless boredom.
But, should the literal trump the figurative and I were to actually succeed in climbing a wall, where would I be then? Still in my office. Sure, I could be dancing on the ceiling a la Lionel Ritchie, but I'm wearing a skirt and gravity is no friend to those sporting laundry-day undies.
I think part of the urgent desire to vacate my immediate premises has to do with an incident that occured last night while watching House, the newish medical drama on after American Idol. The problem with House is that each episode of the show revolves around a patient whose diagnosis is particularly tough to nail down. If you happen to catch the first five minutes of the show, there's no way around watching the remaining fifty-five because (if you're anything like me) you absolutely have to know why the ten-year-old collapsed while jumping rope and now her skin is rotting off.
Anyway, the story goes like this: I get back from the gym and my mom is watching House. Of course I'm sucked in, but I tear myself away from the middle of the show in order to take a much needed shower. Having missed a meaty chunk of plot exposition, I was still able to accurately diagnose the patient with Cushing's Disease before it was revealed because I HAVE DONE NOTHING FOR THE PAST TWO WEEKS BESIDES LINE EDIT A SURGICAL BOARD EXAM STUDY GUIDE.
I should not know anything about medicine. The last time I took any kind of course in biology I was so young my mom still had to get me into R-rated movies. I have willfully neglected the sciences since then, and I'll be damned if they start leaking back into my life now.
The fact that the symptoms of Cushing's Disease are now taking up valuable long-term memory slots in my skull is infuriating. Who knows what they're kicking out? I swear to God, if my brain is replacing anything like my cache of New Kids On The Block lyrics (under-utilized, I'll admit, but nonetheless valuable) with the symptoms of endocrine disorders, I'll lobotomize myself.
It's almost lunch, and I'm sure as hell going out to get it. If I have to be here for another four and one-quarter hours, my full sixty minutes of alloted feeding time is gonna be spent in the great outdoors.
Like the New Kids said:
(We can have lots of fun)
(There's so much we can do)
(It's just you and me)
(I can give you more)
(Don't you know that the time has arrived...
...for me to go to lunch.