No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction at anytime.
There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction,
a blessed unrest keeps us marching and makes us more alive than others.
-- Martha Graham to Agnes De Mille
Was || Will Be || Past Moments || Now || Notes

2003-01-15 - 11:48 a.m.

Melville and cold sores

So it's not exactly Shakespeare and Melville today, kids. Though, really, they can both be boring. I mean, twenty pages about kelp? Get real Herman. Let's stick something pointy into a whale or something, huh?

Anyway, I have this sore on the corner of my mouth. I hesitate to call it a cold sore, cause someone told me once that all cold sores are just a dumbed-down version of herpes, and I won't stand for that. So it's just a sore.

It's been there more than a week, and I'm starting to think it will never heal. I mean, sure it scabs over real nice, every night. But every morning I wake up and my thought process goes something like this:

Me: Huh? Wuzzah? Where'd Alanna Ubach go, and why isn't she giving me a massage anymore? Oh well, another day.

Voice in the back of my head: Don't yawn.

Me: Huh? Dope spawn? What does that mean?

Voice: Don't yawn.

Me: Now, there's something I'm not supposed to do.

Voice: Don't Yawn!

Me: Oh well, I'm sure I'll remember later. (Yawn)

Voice: No!

Sore: Aaaaaaaagh! I confess! I confess!

Me: Crap!

So every night it scabs over, and every morning, as soon as I open my mouth, it cracks all to shit and bleeds and hurts and bugs me all day, and aaaargh. Why won't this thing go away? It's making me crazy.

About now you're probably wishing that you were reading Melville.

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