Sore-throat Meh...

I lost my debit card on Memorial Day. I’m still sick. I want to have my debit card back instantly, not be sick, and have candy for my trouble. I find this attitude, while infantile, to be immensely self-satisfying, and am therefore sticking to it. I also wish death and destruction on my enemies, including (but not limited to,) phone-girl at the credit union, who tried to argue with me regarding the virtues of meaningless security questions that I was never asked to enter answers for in the first place to access my account via the web branch. This is all part and parcel with today, which rather sucks.

Yesterday, though it started out sucky, ended pretty well. Despite being rather cross with me on the phone during the day, Orpheus was kind and gentle last night. Though still sick himself, he spent a lot of naked cuddly-time (though not naked sexy-time… Grrr,) with me, and we went for a walk during which he purchased gelato, and I saw an ugly ex and got to smirk a lot while showing off my hot “new” boyfriend to many eye-rolls and scowls. ‘New’, of course, is a relative term where ugly x is concerned… Let’s just say it’s been a long while. And he’s gained a lot of weight. Ha! In any case, O. also got a book for me to read out of his work-locker, since I’ve finally finished 'Swish: My Quest to Become the Gayest Person Ever' by this guy, who is probably the funniest, most insightful (not to mention hottest,) fey personal essayist I’ve ever read. Also better than the straight ones, to be clear.

The new book is 'The Guerrilla Girls’ Bedside Companion to the History of Western Art'. Though it’s kind of meant to be a fun-time romp, and it does make quite a few pertinent points, it’s not exactly spot-on history-wise, and is hopelessly “radical” in viewpoint. The best thing I can say for it is that it presents neat facts through fun and occasionally shocking graphic design, co-opting the visuo-political language of the group’s member artists. The worst thing to be said is that it frequently pisses me off with un-informed BS like “If Roman MEN had done textile work, then would the Louvre be full of silk undies instead of Kraters?” The answer, in case you were wondering, is NO. Purpose-built textiles don’t tend to last that long, dufus… Every blanket, after all, ISN’T the Bayeaux Tapestry, no matter how much Europeans are currently paying for Amish-made quilts. Said artifacts, while quite beautiful, complex, and skillfully made, still have to be cheap enough to use. And if by some miracle Roman fabric did survive, you couldn’t put 2,000-year-old binkies under display lights, anyway (let alone silk underpants). I’ll lay dollars to donuts that there are whole books, in fact, on textile art AS DEPICTED on pottery, etc… It’s just that nobody but archaeologists ever wants to read said tomes of forgotten lore, because they’re too involved and/or posses the power to tranquilize the uninitiated on sight.

Speaking of tranquility, the doctor prescribed more Tussionex, and despite the fact that it is, in fact, evil, I’m at least getting great sleep. Orpheus refuses to use the stuff on principal, which is too bad. He might be getting better sleep if he would take it, thus being less cranky, and possibly putting out more, though sick. In the style of my new favorite essayist (see above,) I’d have to say that boinking with Orpheus makes me feel cared for and loved. Since there really hasn’t been anything but masturbatory play since we’ve been sick, this means I feel most vulnerable and freaky right now. Therefore, we have to GET WELL so that I can get my freak on, or I’m likely to explode soon. Wish me well.