Uterus

I have stayed away from my keyboard for a while, and the reason for this is bizarre at best. You see, I have grown a uterus. It isn't a tangible, reach-in-and-squish type of uterus, and I am not the only one who suffers from this unique condition. The Male Uterus (mine has been christened 'Squishy' by the ever vivacious Madhubala!) is a transient entity that shows up once in a while and wreaks havoc. A stern-eyed friend of mine told me that my uterus was sexist, but she really had no qualms about pointing out that I was PMS-ing. Heavily. Go figure! This still doesn't explain why I haven't written: for one, I have been busy. Insanely so. Tragically, there is a faction who believes that my industriousness is a pretence. I am letting them keep their judgment, for I cannot spare them my sanity, precious little of it as I have left. It is indeed a recession, O constant reader! A recession into the wilderness! Why do I keep dancing around the uterus? (Haha! That's what she said!). This is exactly why I didn't want to write: nothing vitiates the cogency of prose like a uterus and the meandering sentences it evokes! Meandering sentences, as you can infer, are directly related to meandering emotions. Yes, I have the emotional equilibrium of a pulsed pendulum these days, and it took me, oh, two-hundred-ish words to tell you that!

You see, I've met someone. Sort of. I don't know. It was at coffee, and I flew away from that scene like a lovesick Cosette. Now I spend my days and my nights texting furtively, obsessively checking Facebook, and inventing excuses to post, to text, to write. I burst into song at random, (much to the consternation of my residents) with the same alacrity with which I burst into tears, which, in turn, applies equally for when I burst into gales of inexplicable laughter. Hamlet has been a Godsend throughout this uterine crisis: dealing with meltdowns over Skype, and handling me with kid-gloves (or surgical ones) as I call him with fresh analyses at two in the morning. Janice and T-Tweek, on the other hand, have made it their life's goal to laugh at me (such overbearing tragedy! I hate me!), and, in the process, have enabled me to laugh at some of the "crazy shit [I] do". Charles Ryder has coddled and mothered me over MSN, while Bebe has promised me coffee and advice. Verlaine has been the fine focus knob on the microscopicity of my thoughts: "You are obsessing; calm down." Oh, my friends! I feel another cry coming on...

I don't do this: the laughing-singing-crying-my-life-is-an-ornate-musical deal. At least not openly. I don't glide down hallways; I sternly march down them to the smart clip-clopping of my Aldos. In class, I am Hermione-effing-Granger, and Hermione doesn't miss out on reading assignments, and neither does she day-dream and doodle. My life, as I knew it, has come to a stop. The worst of it is that I am enjoying it! And then, I am racked with guilt for enjoying it! Holy God, if it weren't for the proper false! It appears that my heart is wax, just like everyone else! Do you see me? Do you? Do you see that one moment I am reaching for paradise, while in the next I am cradling a stab wound? Holy God, is there no mercy? Where are the answers, and why must I wait? I cannot! I will not! Does this mean that a change is about? Oh! Le Chatlier's Principle! Oh! You silly, silly uterus!

Excuse me, I have to go make a Valentine, and I am not proficient with scissors.

With the promise of coherence,
Until the next time,
GossipGuy.