Merciful Zeus! (I’ll Swallow Your Soul!)

Did you ever have one of those mornings, when you were sure you had not only sliced the breakfast apple on a pretty saucer, you know, the Sunday saucer with the Klimt-esque black and golden abstract drawings on it, because why the hell not, we deserve a little luxury, but imagine also having eaten the apple with your first sleepy and delicious cup of coffee, but after going to the kitchen for a refill, there the saucer sits, on the counter, and the entire experience, or memory, of having just eaten the fruit is actually from yesterday, or any other day before this morning, since you are like Hercule Poirot and must have the same thing every day, or your stomach will be terribly upset?

Well I am having one of those mornings, and not only the uneaten apple that has turned brown, I am also wearing my sporty briefs that don’t really fit me, but make me feel like the white man in the Michelin tire ads. I was just making a point to my man the other day on the importance of buying new stuff in order to make exercising more interesting, assuming of course that it had lost its appeal at some point in the first place, and that for me, going for my daily walk in my old horrible threads, or in my spanking new gear, is a completely different experience.

I have four different pairs of running shoes, for instance, for every mood, or if not every mood, at least some moods. Why running shoes? Because when my old pair of trainers finally broke down eight years ago, a pair I had been using since the dawn of time, and I went shopping for new shoes, the sales person asked how many kilometers I tackle, usually, and asked to see how I take steps. I took some steps in the store, and he recommended running shoes anyway, because of the sheer length of both my walks as well as my giant lopes. I guess I do have a long step, I have feet up the wazoo, and am always in a hurry. I have never really gotten the moseying to a place, I find people who mosey on the street excruciatingly annoying and pass them by like the freight train that I am.

The underpants, however. I don’t have many underpants one might describe as sporty or dashing per se, I usually go for comfort rather than beauty in that department, it’s like a hundred euros for a bra, panties three for a tenner kind of thing. I like the contradiction there, it’s like Anna Wintour’s regime at Vogue, you know, wear this Dior knapsack with this H&M jumpsuit, or Givenchy with Gina Tricot, et cetera. So I don’t know how I was yo-yo-ed into buying uncomfortably tight sporty underpants that one time. Maybe because they were fifty percent off, and sported a Beyoncé song lyric on them. Anyhow, now that I have them, I can’t not wear them, can I? I mean, it’s like with Phoebe in Friends, how she wants to bake all her cookie recipes an equal number of times so that none of the recipes will feel bad, an idea I have always firmly believed in, and practice in every department of my existence to the point of ascetic stoicism that borders on hilarious, and, to some, my man for one, indecipherable abstractism.

For instance, when I am spending time at my parents’, they already know I want to drink my morning joe each morning from a different cup so that all the cups feel like they are fulfilling their purpose and their coffee drinking destiny. “Which one do you want today?” they ask. “The turquoise one”, I answer, or: “The one with the frogs”, or: “The big yellow.”

At home I preach on about how one must use all the utensils in the utensils drawer, or else they will be so upset they will hunt us down in the dead of night when we least expect it, because the evil spirit of the terrible book covered with human skin from Evil Dead (2, not the first one, because it wasn’t as insane or surreal or all-round fabulous) will possess each and every one of those forks, spoons, not to mention knives, and we will end up having to saw off our own hand to save our dear lives – thank the lord it’s the right hand, not the left one, because like Bruce Campbell, I am a leftie, too. Although I would never be able to do the flip the way he executes it, or at all, to be honest. It just happens, and so understatedly, too. Bruce Campbell does it so beautifully, even eloquently, while not drawing any unnecessary attention to the gymnastic excellence, right in the middle of the plate-thrashing sequence, where the Demon Hand is trying to off Ash by breaking every dish handy in the kitchen on his head.

So, for a meticulous and thorough person like me, I find it incredible, when stuff like the uneaten apple happens. And mind you, I did get a full seven and a half hours sleep last night, a rarity, and perhaps as such, the culprit for my uncharacteristic dumbfounded morning absentmindedness and deconstruction of the routine.

So what is the gist, here? I have to take my walk today in an uncomfortably tight pair of undies, that leave annoying red marks on my hips and make me feel like I’m ten kilos overweight, even if I’m not, because otherwise, they will conspire with the other ones in the drawer, gang up in the night, and possibly strangle me in my sleep? Damn straight.

While the first part of today’s title is a borrowed line from only the best single episode of TV ever, Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s Once More, with Feeling, I dedicate this little story to Sam Raimi and Bruce Campbell. Always a brighter day after watching Evil Dead 2: Dead by Dawn, you guys!