Yesterday, when passing on my novel, Backstage at the Caribou, the reader of one of the publishing houses (I forget which, but I think it had a hyphen in it) wrote, "Stories about strippers have been done. Also, has Ms. Sylvan ever actually been a stripper? Most of her competition have been."
This morning, after three hours at the walk-in clinic and a sleepless night due to a tonsil that may as well have been on fire, I am in the pharmacy unbathed in my Indiana sweatshirt with the worst sore throat I've ever had, breaking down in tears (again!) trying the explain to the pharm tech that I spent two hours the previous day (in the police station, no less, but I digress) on the phone with the socialist bureaucracy who said that I actually AM covered before the first of the month. I'm stupidly crying asking how much the penicillin will be without insurance, while (no joke) the well-scrubbed, rosy-cheeked, redheaded 22-year-old in a grey pinstripe business suit with a reality-television smile standing uncomfortably close to me tries to think of something to say either to comfort me or to add levity to the atmosphere. He finally comes up with an interminable shrug and the words, "I'll tell ya, the day when all the medical problems are solved.... that'll be the day." I choose to ignore him completely instead of sawing his scalp off. He still standing there when I go back to sit and wait for my drugs, and when there is an uncomfortable silence, he intones, "Man, it sure is cold in here, huh?"
It writes itself, but how does one write about such cliche reality? Or does one?
Felt like a failure for a couple of hours yesterday but I decided it was more fun to just get angry at others. Fuck feeling sorry for myself. Romantic St. Patrick's Day dinner at Dali (a Spanish restaurant) where our waiter played Lorca in Tom's show on Friday. Not so impeccable at English, he says, "The Universe is short," which we figure out means that the world is small.
I was supposed to start working at The Biscuit today, but my condition has postponed this development. On the upside, I've got vicodin and the day off, which means writing, knitting, and Wes Anderson movies, all feeling much happier than I maybe should.