A cold has invaded my head, marching across my gray matter like gambolling purple fluffs. Everything above my shoulders is stuffed like cotton in an aspirin bottle, everything below, loose joints like elastic banded wood 2 x 4's.
My eyes feel pushed from behind, tight against their lids, and I've prayed a million times for something to happen to free up tomorrow. (Volunteering 2- 5, PAL-restricted 6-10, work 12- 8)I want someone to create an extra twelve hours in the day, tuck me into bed, comb my hair, and tell me I'm still a beautiful little amazon. Because I know I look terrible.
Oh no, that was no ploy to fish for compliments; I know I do. The first PAL-restricted course was taught today by the same man who taught me the PAL- non-restricted. He's seen me before, twice, for four hours, about three weeks ago, amid about 30 other students. I walked in today, first thing he says? "You look awful. You sick?"
Sometimes I think I'm hard to read, and other times I'm sure there's a neon sign above my head, "Michelle is talkative today because blah, blah, blah."
The feeling I am experiencing can be reproduced by burping up cheesesteak, and thinking of lane changing with no power-steering in philly on a drizzly Thursday while the radio plays a song with only acoustic guitar. Actually, it's best if you imagine an off-duty clown in a Bogart trench loping along the sidewalk, too.
Seriously though, I like Haiku. I like the concept, the execution, and the result.
This place gets even weirder when I'm sick. Two chairs lined up in a cubicle, and all I can think is, "Brokeback time!". I pause to discreetly adjust my underwear and turn to find a plastic skeleton, his hand over his mouth in mute, hallowe'eny horror.
When my cold gives me chills, my body becomes a huge pacemaker, pounding it's electric shock heartbeat through my ankles, knees, hips, shoulders, and elbows.
I become a giant, fake-blood filled plastic I.V bag on the shelf at the Edmonton Space and Science center.
Someone's flowery, magnetic wedding announcement makes me weep, until I see it was last year, which means it's over, which makes me happy, cause now it's a marriage, which means work that I'm not doing! HAHA!
electric pacemaker haiku
Don't think the images, feel them. Far too people experience what life feels like. Breathe it through your nose, resting on your palate like wine. Taste the world through your skin. Like a grand piano, a merlot, and a box of chocolate...
Grab some kleenex and go here: