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Crazy Pat

Me as the Bride, Blood Wedding, Cal Arts, 2003

Me as the Bride, Blood Wedding, Cal Arts, 2003
Also, how I felt this morning.

Last night I was kept awake for hours with a terrible headache. I don’t know if you’d call it a migraine, but I definitely felt like I was dying. This is a result of my impending period – yes, I’m going there. If periods make you queasy, feel free to skip to the next paragraph.  Anyhow, every fourth period or so, I get whopped upside the female-parts with gnarly aches, pains, hormonal outbursts, and cramps that are akin to having one’s uterus shoved through a meat grinder. Tomorrow my period is due, so last night there was a torturous headache designed to punish me for Eve’s original sin. Tonight the cramps will come, but don’t worry, I’m already hopped up on Midol.

So I lay awake for hours, miserable, facing death, and then, as dawn was breaking, the copious amounts of extra-strength tylenol finally kicked in and I passed out. Twenty minutes later my alarm went off. I dragged myself from bed and emailed my office manager – I was definitely not going into the office for a few more hours. I just needed a little bit of rest. Email sent, I crawled back to bed and curled around Mike’s sleeping frame. Relief! I could sleep for at least two more hours, delicious sleep I desperately needed. And just as my lids began to droop and my breath began to slow, “BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!!! BEEEEEPPP BEEEEP BEEEEP!! BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEEP!!! BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!!”

There is a family that lives across the street, a perfectly nice family with a whole passel of children who play together beautifully in the evening, their voices ringing out over the neighborhood as the sun sets pink behind the palm trees. I love this family, love those children and the happy feeling that fills me when I hear their innocent laughter. But I do not love the person associated with the family who pulls in front of the house every morning, even on Saturdays, and leans on their car horn so as to wake the living dead. I do not love that person at all. And when it happened this morning, my brain still tender and my hormones run rampant, it was all I could do not to grab my brother’s replica G36 assault (airsoft) rifle, tear down the stairs, out the door, across the street, nightgown streaming, hair wild, to shove the barrel of the (airsoft) gun into that mother bleeper’s face and scream, “PARK YOUR %&$^##@* CAR, GET OUT, AND RING THE %$#&@(*&!#@ DOOR BELL LIKE A &^$#@&*%$% NORMAL PERSON, YOU SELFISH, STUPID,  &*%#@^% IDIOT!”

But I didn’t. Because not only would that be insane, and inappropriate, but also because that is not what airsoft rifles are for. And I don’t want to go to jail. And there are the children. And the horrible horn-blarer might have a real gun, one that doesn’t shoot plastic BBs. That, my friends, is called self-control.