Do you sometimes get a sense of dread, or of some impending doom?
You’re minding your own business, following the pheromones back home, carrying your crust of bread--enough food for a month--when you feel a sudden heat, like sunstroke. When you look up, you see the sky has darkened and a white-hot spot of light is trained on you by a gigantic eight year-old wielding a magnifying glass. You scramble away only to find that there is no escaping the heat, the spot follows you wherever you go. Then the hard shell that covers your body starts turning bright red, the grey flesh inside turning succulently white, and the last thing you think of as your consciousness ebbs is that some garlic butter would be nice right about now.
I am having one of those feelings. And it’s not because I may have had some bad Mexican food.
I am a worrier. I worry about doorknobs being contaminated by bacteria. I worry about my hair falling out from showering with hot water. I worry that Christina Aguilera will get herpes because she’s being so Dirrty. I think she should bathe or at the very least, douche.
I worry about Michael Jackson. I worry that while he was having his chin and his nose done, he forgot that he was supposed to look like Liz Taylor instead of the cast of Planet of the Apes.
I worry about Courtney Love, but I can’t keep up with the amount of trouble she’s getting into. There is only a level of worry that you can deal with and when that line is crossed, you become numb and then you just become resigned to your fate. You want to let the undertow carry you away and you hope that you are swept to shore at some point. You only hope that somebody takes care of Frances Bean.
I worry about my job where I am only a temp, a contract worker, not an employee. I am a prostitute, not wife. Even though it’s not a permanent position, sometimes, it feels like one. For a while, the routine made me forget my worries, it lulled me into complacency. But now it has come back full force.
I worry that I will never be able to feel secure ever again.