I can't believe my swan song is missing from my archives. FOR SHAME. Readers of the Bunny Blog, I give you--once again--The Crazy Show.

* * *

Every 28 days I lose my mind. I go insane.

I guess I have bad PMS. The real kind, the type doctors used to proscribe speed for, and now give you some well-marketed pastel punch card with pills called phasafem, or gynocare, or premafree. The logo is usually a whimsical figure of a woman dancing with flowers. You'll see it on the little socks they put over the stirrups to keep your feet from getting cold. The commercial has ballerinas in it, and in the end of it, while they're rattling off things like "may cause anal leakage," a middle aged woman rides a bike on a long dirt road. Wheeeeeee!!! My period rocks! Look, no hands!

Well I don't take that shit, because I've never been a pill-taker. I don't even like to use aspirin. And I'm not really observant, so every 28 days it is a big surprise when the PMS comes. Honestly, I am surprised every god damned time. Take last week's bout; I had no idea it was going to come. I was not expecting to go insane, though I had already done this a couple hundred times.

I don't really chart my periods per se. That seems too anal to me, one of those small details in life that only people with ulcers are really meticulous about. It's like health insurance, or a valid driver's license, or the last half of the SAT's. Who has need for these things? Why should I answer all these annoying questions when I can be daydreaming about sex and making pretty pictures with all of these dots on the answer sheet? Why should I know when my period is coming when not even Mother Nature knows? Some things just can't be controlled.

But the problem here is that the insanity isn't a snappy changeover. The curtain to the Crazy Show opens an inch at a time.

Monday: I have a meeting with Tucker, my ex-boyfriend who I have an ambiguous friendship with, to discuss this week's rendering for my children's book. I rise early, 11:30am, and for some nebulous reason, I don't feel like showering. I toss on the jeans I wore the day before. I cannot find a bra, and decide that the whereabouts of my bras (2) is something that cannot be controlled, thus I should put on the dirty, V-neck sweater I found beneath the jeans without one.

Tucker arrives to pick me up. We go to lunch at a sushi restaurant, where I eat three rolls by myself and get really pissy about the fortune in my cookie. When we discuss my drawings, I find his criticism to be harsh, but vow not to let it get to me.

Tucker takes me back to my apartment. For some indiscernible reason, I decide to drink an entire pot of coffee. On the last cup, I empty my box of equal. There is more at the Starbucks around the corner, and there is also a really hot Spanish Barista there between 4 and 9pm. So for some unapparent reason, this compels me to go to Starbucks after consuming an entire pot of coffee, for more coffee. I am not wearing a bra, and there are zoom-zoom sweat stains in my already dirty sweater. I bring my sketchpad along.

I return from Starbucks having made no progress in my sketchpad. In fact, the only progress I have made is the declaration that I am a total hack who should never draw. I also have a very bad head ache, and this must be from all the coffee I drank. Why did I do that?

I spend the remainder of the night on my makeshift couch. I decide to berate myself for not working. I usually work all day, every day, only breaking to masturbate or dote on my dog. My inner monologue sounds like this:You have WORK to do! You're LAZY! and for good measure I throw in: No one will ever love you! I kill these harsh thoughts by watching episodes of The Family Guy. That Stewie is a hoot.

Tuesday: I rise early again. Noon, I think. I go and make another pot of coffee, but have to dump it out when I remember that I have no equal. Instead of going to a store to buy equal, which is way too confusing, I factor in the permutations of strange occurrences that could distract me on the way there and back, and, for some imprecise reason, I decide I go to Starbucks for some coffee in my leopard print pajamas. Later, I am very embarrassed by the pajamas.

I try to do some sketching, but can't, because I have absolutely no talent, and no one will ever love me. I decide that this is the fault of Tucker.

Oh, it's all your fault, you mean son of a bitch. You and your hefty criticism of my Meerkats. I won't call you all day. Shit, I won't ever call you again. Fucker. Yeah, that's right. I won't even call you Tucker any more. I'll just take the 'T' off and call you "Fucker." "Fucker Max," ha ha! Wait, after I take the 'T' off I have to add an 'F.' Yes, that's right. Take the 'T' off, add the 'F,' and then I can call you "Fucker Max." Victory is mine, "Fucker Max!"

I suddenly desire copious amounts of ice cream. Not just any kind of ice cream will do, certainly not the frozen yogurt I usually eat. Only Ben and Jerry's will suffice. I go to the convenience store around the corner in my leopard print pajamas (the pajama embarrassment registers later) and hover in front of the ice cream cooler so long that condensation appears in the other side of the glass from my body heat.

Cherry Garcia or Oatmeal Cookie? Cherries or oatmeal? Shit. What do I want? God dammit, why is this so hard? Cherry Garcia or Oatmeal Cookie? Fuck!

When I get back to my apartment, I decide it will be much nicer to eat my ice cream in bed. This is indeed nice, and for no clear reason, I call Fucker Max to tell him so.

"Gorilla?" [This is my nick name for him]
"Yes, Bunny."
"I like dee ice cream."
"Otay Bunny. I have to go." [Annoyed, 'I'm busy writing a book' voice]
"Otay Gorilla."
"Goobye Bunny."
"Goobye."

Well, that was a rather brief conversation. I guess Fucker Max is too good to chat with me. I continue to eat ice cream until I feel as if I am going to barf. I attribute the barfing sensation with Fucker Max, and decide that I won't call that bastard ever again.

I clean off my cluttered desk to draw some more. Nothing seems to be coming out in the way of inspiration. As it is now 4pm, I decide to go to Starbucks to get more coffee and flirt with the Spanish Barista, which will surely get the creative juices flowing. I change into my dirty jeans and sweater. Yes, this is the same combo El Barista saw me in yesterday, but he won't notice, will he? What about this coffee stain on the chest? Where is my bra? Oh fuck it all.

At Starbucks, while sitting at a table drawing flying squirrels, I begin to cry at the lyrics of a Billie Holliday song. This is odd? I shake it off and go back to the squirrels, but later I think to myself, it's a crazy mixed up world, and I don't fit into it. I don't belong here.

I go back to my apartment and take a light, five hour nap. When I awaken, I decide it is time to really buckle down to drawing. Half a raccoon later I abandon art altogether because I am clearly a talentless hack in need of a menial desk job.

I eat some more ice cream and watch late night television. This is when it occurs to me that Fucker Max broke my heart. I decide to take this up with him in a series of despondent Emails, during the writing of which I cry. Later I am not sure why I cry. I broke up with him a year ago, and I am not sorry about the decision.

My phone rings. It is Fucker Max:
"Bunny, you have PMS."
"No I don't." [Light goes on in head] "Oh, yeah. Maybe you're right," as if drinking four pots of coffee in two days is a normal occurrence.
"Bunny, you get in bed and go seepy."
"Otay, Gorilla."
"Otay."
"Goonight."
"Goonight."

I fall asleep, spooning with my puppy in my leopard pajamas.

Okay. Let's see. No more coffee, Bunny, because you can't drink coffee when you have PMS. It's bad for you. And you have to stay away from those sad CD's you listen to. Let's make a list: No David Gray, no Cowboy Junkies, none of Dave Matthew's last three albums, and absolutely positively no Smiths. You are, under no circumstances, allowed to listen to Morrisey.

I fall asleep with Morrisey in my head. I tear up, slightly. He's human; he needs to be loved.

Wednesday: I rise in a funk. It is way too early for me to be awake (9am), but puppy needs to pee. I take her out in the leopard pajamas, and get a coffee on the way back to the apartment. Surely one cup won't hurt my PMS.

I consider putting the jeans and sweater combo on, but opt to draw in my pajamas all day. Why not? I have no boss. To inspire myself to draw, I watch a few episodes of SpongeBob Squarepants. I desire more ice cream, procure it from the freezer and notice that the level is dropping rather quickly. Much, much too quickly considering the carton has thousands of calories in it.

I try to draw, but it is no use. I should be fitted with prosthetic hands so that the eyes of the world will never be tortured by my hideous attempts at drawing. I go back to the bed, where, for no perceptible reason, I decide that watching the full length SpongeBob movie will surely inspire me. I eat more ice cream. Halfway through the movie I call Fucker Max.

"Gorilla."
"Yes, Bunny."
"Whatcha doin'?"
"Watching dee television!" [Annoyed, 'I am watching ESPN' voice]
"You want to cuddle?"
"No, Bunny! You are naughty in your face!"
"Who will cuddle me?"
"Nobody."
"You go to Hell!"
"Otay, goobye!"
"Goobye."

Since he outright refused to cuddle with me, I decide that he is a malicious bastard. I vow to never call him again.

I put my Ipod on and listen to songs on shuffle while I try my hand at drawing once more. This doesn't go well. I decide that this is a coffee emergency, the likes of which I have not seen before. I really really really really need to make a pot of coffee. I do this, but throw the pot out when I realize I have no equal. I go to Starbucks in my leopard pajamas and Ipod (embarrassment still hasn't registered). As I have not washed my hair in days and smell like a block of Havarti cheese gone bad, El Barista does not greet me with his usual flair. I do not care because I am deep within the tortured mind of David Gray...

Can't tell the bottle from the mountain top. No, we're not right.

We're not right, are we, Dave? No one loves us. Who will cuddle us? Oh, someone kill me.

Back at the apartment I flop onto my bed/couch. I nap for seven hours, and then watch television until it occurs to me that I should call Fucker.

"Gorilla?"
"Yes, Bunny!" [Annoyed, 'there is a fetus on her way here to fuck me' voice]
"You busy, Gorilla?"
"Yes, Bunny. You go seepy, otay. You will feel much better soon."
"I jus' woke up."
"Watch Finding Nemo."
"Oh, yes, disin' is a good idea."
"Yes, you have not seen disin' movie yet."
"Otay, I go watch Finding Nemo."
"Otay, goobye!"
"Goobye."

I slide the Finding Nemo disc into my DVD and hit play. I decide to scratch and kiss my dog while the coming attractions are playing.

What's that crusty stuff on your nose, Maxie? Is that 'ring around the snout?' What the... is that what I think it is? Did you get the ice cream carton out of the trash and lick it clean? Fuck, did I eat an entire carton of ice cream in two fucking days? I pinch a thigh, and vow to never eat again.

Finding Nemo begins. Two clown fish are celebrating their new Anemone/home they have purchased so that there will be room for all their hatchlings when they come. It's a touching scene. They look in on their sleeping eggs and pick out names for them all. A minute later, a barracuda swoops in and eats all but the father and one egg.

I am startled. I am aghast. What? What the hell is this shit?

The father discovers the last remaining hatchling. Oh God. This is...

The father weeps and tenderly pets his hatchling. Oh [choke, sniff], God. I...

The father vows to always keep the hatchling safe... Oh [snort, gurgle] ahawhawhawhawhawhaw...

Four minutes into Finding Nemo, I turn the movie off. I am bawling. I decide to call Fucker.

"Gorilla!" [sniff]
"Yes, Bunny. What's wrong?"
"Oh Gorilla! [snort, cough] The mommy fish got eaten and all her babies got eaten too there was this horrible barracuda and he ate every fish and egg in the Anemone and left only the father and this one egg who is probably Nemo but I had to turn it off because I am crying so hard I can't go on and watch anymore its horrible this movie its torture..."
"Otay, Bunny. Stop. Calm down."
"But it's horrible. The fish are all dead!"
"Sssshhhhh... Stop crying."
"Its so sad." [sniff, sniff]
"Otay, Bunny. You go seepy. It will help your face."
"Goobye."
"Goobye."

I hang up the phone believing th at no one in the whole world loves me. I decide to check my Email to see if anyone has even bothered to write me. There are nearly a hundred messages of praise from people who read my blog. But, for some indistinct reason, this doesn't mean that I am loved at all. Clearly, I should drink more coffee to assuage the pain of being uncared for. I go to Starbucks in my leopard pajamas (not yet).

While passing a Subway Sandwich shop, it occurs to me that I haven't eaten anything but ice cream and coffee for two days. I decide that sustenance will help my condition. The kindly sandwich artist takes no apparent notice of my leopard pajamas. Also, as the whole place smells of cheese, my odor goes undetected. I feel at home there. The sandwich artist makes me a delicious sub, which I take back to my apartment and eat. As my body is lacking nutrients, this feels good.

For some ambiguous reason, I go back to Subway to get another sandwich. I fall asleep to episodes of The Family Guy with the sandwich in hand. In the night, I catch puppy nibbling at the sandwich.

Thursday: I awaken with a black olive on my forearm. I am not feeling well. I attribute this to eating 1.5 feet of Subway sandwiches in a sitting. I go to the bathroom and vomit, and after I clean up the mess, a horrendous ache arises in my lower belly.

AHA! Cramps! AHA! The light at the end of the tunnel! I've made it through.

I check my cell to see if anyone has even bothered to call a talentless hack like me. There are 27 voicemails from my friends and family. I am loved once again.

I feel great until it hits me that I've been wandering unshowered through my neighborhood in the same leopard pajamas for a week. But, its okay because I'll never go crazy again, right?

Posted by jlgolson at 9:58 PM

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