I dreamed I was eating my own head. A big, meaty slice from the back, on a plate, with a fork and knife. It was kind of sweet, but also kind of salty, and the sudden realization, mid-chew, that wasn't this how cows got Mad Cow Disease? Am I going to get Mad Me Disease? And Oh the revulsion that came upon me. I can still taste it.
Anyway, this dream pretty much sums up how I feel about my blog right now: I'm just feeding on myself, and nothing good can come from it. Such as the glacial evolution of my hair do. Or, can I talk to you about my boobs for a minute? They were all swoll up last week, in a way I'd never imagined them being after so much deflationary breastfeeding. They felt like someone'd snuck in some silicone pillows while I was sleeping. I mentioned it to my acupuncturist and she said, "Well, that makes sense, with your liver still deficient." Your liver underfunctions and your boobs swell up. Who knew? Now you do.
There's a nip of fall in the air here in Santa Barbara today, which is more evidence of global warming, as September and October are usually our hottest months. Droves of disappointed tourists shiver on our foggy beaches from June to August, then they all clear out when school opens so the locals can start working on their tans. I wore a pair of boots the other day -- boots with three-inch heels. Why? you ask. Do you need to be six foot one? I walked the seven blocks from my office down Carrillo Boulevard to where my car was getting a new front right tire (a screw and a nail), and by the time I got there I'd vowed to throw those boots in the trash. No one needs to walk seven blocks on the balls of their feet. It's beyond retarded. My feet were on fire and I'd developed a little crick in my knee, which I tried to work out while I stood at the desk in searing pain writing a check for my new tire. It took three days and two hours of yoga to reintegrate the upper and lower portions of my leg. Do I need to create knee trouble? It's bad enough I'm eating my own head, but my knees deserve better. The boots are on their way to the Salvation Army. If you tend to troll the aisles of the Sally for shoes, they're size 10 Nine West square-toed ankle-high knee butchers; don't let them tempt you. They're nothing but trouble.