"In vacant or in pensive mood..." I am: Bekah; 24; Law Student / Favorite Things: Carbs (so there!), Johnny Damon, Smiling at babies, Grilled cheese, Comfortable silence / Favorite Supreme Court Justice: Brennan / Favorite Wilson: Owen by an inch / Today's Special: Song: Elliott Smith, "Bled White"; Quote: "You know, there's like a butt-load of gangs at this school. This one gang kept wanting me to join because I'm pretty good with a bowstaff." Please love me: mmbekah@yahoo.com


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Shard Day’s Night

I’ve had to deal with a variety of rude awakenings in my life. When I was a camp counselor, packs of hyper preadolescent girls shook and squealed me awake on a daily basis. In high school, my Dad often blasted me awake with high-volume Sgt. Pepper. (Somehow “Good Morning, Good Morning,” while undoubtedly a classic, loses some of its appeal first thing in the morning. I think it was specifically the clanging and rooster noises that made me want beat Sgt. Pepper about the head with his own shoulder pads and draw and quarter the Lonely Hearts Club Band). In college, I sometimes awoke to the melodious sound of someone vomiting in the bathroom across the hall. Given this vast experience, I thought I’d had the worst of it. Now I’m not so sure.

Until yesterday, I kept a small (though quite heavy), stained-glass lamp on the windowsill above my bed. I used it as a reading light, in order to eliminate the need to get out of bed at night and walk two feet to flip the light switch. (Note to self: Sloth really is a deadly sin). Last night, in my agitated dream state (I must have been dreaming of Jon Stewart), I turned, pulled the lamp cord, and caused the lamp, complete with glass lampshade, to descend onto my head.

Recall how annoyed you feel when your alarm goes off in the morning. Now couple that annoyance with searing pain and multicolored shards of glass embedded in your hair, and you might begin to appreciate my state of mind. I would describe it as exasperated anguish. I lay there dazed, coming to terms with the following facts: a) I was lying in a pile of glass, b) what was left of the lamp was still resting on my face, c) I lacked the motivation to remove it, and d) the ringing in my ear was not the telephone.

Oh, my futon! My steadfast friend and safe haven! From this day forth you will herald unspeakable trauma! After such betrayal, can I ever learn to love again? And more important, must I forever suffer from an unholy fear of table lamps? Please God, give me the strength to heal.

posted by Bekah at 8:09 AM :: |