IN WHICH THE MONTY IS ACCIDENTALLY DOPED
I don't know what possessed me to take the little green pills.
I mean, I know what possessed me to take pills: knowledge that I would have to sing today, fear of clogged nostrils and swollen glands, a desire to truncate the length of the malady ... what I don't know is what possessed me to take those particular little green pills.
It boggles the mind that, as supposedly capable as I am, I was unable to read the label that would have cautioned me, in bold letters, to take only one of the little green pills. It would thrown big chemical compound words at me, the kind only doctors and crystal meth cooks are familiar with. It would have cajoled me, in sans serif print, and threatened me, in italics: For the love of God, Monty ... if you must take this medication, take but one pill.
But could the Monty be bothered to process information directly related to her health and wellbeing?
Let me say again: I know not what possessed me to take the little green pills, and this in itself is a conundrum. But perhaps the greater mystery lies in the utter oblivion -- the wasteland -- that my synapses must have been this morning. What else could account for the actions that followed?
Why -- why, Jesus, you half-dead son of a bitch -- did I decide to brew myself a nice, hot pot of coffee while I waited for the several little green pills to kick in?
... I hear no reply. God has abandoned his children, or at least those of his children who stray from the sacrosanct path of label-reading. What kind of fucking shephard just lets his flock pop pills and then drink coffee and then go to class and act all twitchy in front of their advisory committee members?! ... The negligent kind, that's what. Oh, you heard me, Jehovah. I went there.
... When I began to feel a little strange during my 8 am bibliography class, I assumed it was just a little coffee rush, coupled with a good night's sleep. And a newfound love for charting the neumes of a Gregorian chant. And dilated pupils. And an overabundance of enthusiam for the catalogueing and indexing of the complete works of Chopin.
About halfway through Chopin's etudes, I finally realized that something was terribly wrong.
And now here I am, sitting at a library computer, typing like Hunter S. Thompson on a mescaline IV, relating to all of you how I came to this depressing and pitiful pass. I am avoiding the moment when Maggie Lattimore's office door swings open; the moment when she sees me standing on her threshold -- dishelved, muttering, twitching back and forth with such violence that I almost topple off my own high heels every 22 seconds -- and asks, "Jesus, Katie ... are you high?"
I mean, I know what possessed me to take pills: knowledge that I would have to sing today, fear of clogged nostrils and swollen glands, a desire to truncate the length of the malady ... what I don't know is what possessed me to take those particular little green pills.
It boggles the mind that, as supposedly capable as I am, I was unable to read the label that would have cautioned me, in bold letters, to take only one of the little green pills. It would thrown big chemical compound words at me, the kind only doctors and crystal meth cooks are familiar with. It would have cajoled me, in sans serif print, and threatened me, in italics: For the love of God, Monty ... if you must take this medication, take but one pill.
But could the Monty be bothered to process information directly related to her health and wellbeing?
Let me say again: I know not what possessed me to take the little green pills, and this in itself is a conundrum. But perhaps the greater mystery lies in the utter oblivion -- the wasteland -- that my synapses must have been this morning. What else could account for the actions that followed?
Why -- why, Jesus, you half-dead son of a bitch -- did I decide to brew myself a nice, hot pot of coffee while I waited for the several little green pills to kick in?
... I hear no reply. God has abandoned his children, or at least those of his children who stray from the sacrosanct path of label-reading. What kind of fucking shephard just lets his flock pop pills and then drink coffee and then go to class and act all twitchy in front of their advisory committee members?! ... The negligent kind, that's what. Oh, you heard me, Jehovah. I went there.
... When I began to feel a little strange during my 8 am bibliography class, I assumed it was just a little coffee rush, coupled with a good night's sleep. And a newfound love for charting the neumes of a Gregorian chant. And dilated pupils. And an overabundance of enthusiam for the catalogueing and indexing of the complete works of Chopin.
About halfway through Chopin's etudes, I finally realized that something was terribly wrong.
And now here I am, sitting at a library computer, typing like Hunter S. Thompson on a mescaline IV, relating to all of you how I came to this depressing and pitiful pass. I am avoiding the moment when Maggie Lattimore's office door swings open; the moment when she sees me standing on her threshold -- dishelved, muttering, twitching back and forth with such violence that I almost topple off my own high heels every 22 seconds -- and asks, "Jesus, Katie ... are you high?"
posted by Uncle Monty: at
9:35 AM
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