Tubloidial

I lay in an MRI machine for 90 min+ today. I dealt with it, and passed the time, like this:

I’m in a birth canal. I’m in hypersleep. They said I could keep my rings on but the silver one is buzzing in time with the machine. I’m in a booth listening to experimental electronic music. (Ernt ernt ernt ping ping ping.) I’m Madonna in the beginning of the “Bedtime Story“video. I can hear the magnets crackling in my brain. I’m the batteries in a giant’s vibrator. I will name one film for each letter of the alphabet. Thank you, Xanadu. I can no longer feel my arms. I hear thunder. Luckily, I believe this entire machine is plastic. Only .04% of people react to this contrast dye with anaphylaxis. Eight more minutes is entirely too long and I wonder what would happen if I urinated all over this human conveyance bed. I want the pictures, except I don’t want to see my own eyes as balls. That is not the same man who put me in the machine. I know I’m free to go and I will just as soon as I can feel my legs.

3

In summer flats I am a very short human being.

At the therapist I pictured (for the first time) an event as a molecule, a plan with fears clinging to its sides.

I’ve been renting a condo for two months and haven’t spent a night in it. For a single person this might indicate a searing social life. In my case, it’s conflicting work schedules and laziness.

Hey. Hey. Hey. STOP IT.

Enough with the empire/babydoll/smocked waist tops.  I mean it. I want to buy and wear something else.

Bitchtables

Peas should come on a cob.