Microsoft word - response 1.doc

Response 1: Shelly Jackson (Melancholy of Anatomy) Experimental Women’s Fiction – Milletti Great, He’s back on the goddamned computer again. Would it kill Him to read a book in an easy chair? No, not on the couch like usual, how he reads and talks to his girlfriend for hours. Curves the spine with His feet up and contorts the neck with the two pillows that way. Ha, the “neck” – my neck is killing me, everyone complains. Just like their supposed “shoulders” and “upper back.” Most people probably can’t even spell trapezius. He spelled it wrong twice at the orthopedic. Bullshit self-diagnosis again. Had to laugh when the Doc told him I wasn’t causing His dizziness like He thought. Just like I told the cerebellum, fucking dope(amine) addict. I wouldn’t make him dizzy – that’s the cochlea’s area, so check with them. He never did see a Doc about that, probably too infrequent by His standards. No one would have Anyway, I suppose I was a bit tighter than usual for a month there. But how can you blame me? He was typing essays ten hours a day, often for hours at a time without breaking. Sure, it’s easy to stretch the quads a bit. But I need downtime from stabilizing a ten-pound head, especially in those locked positions. At least He’s sleeping 7 or 8 hours these days. Nothing like last year, when 6 was the standard during the week. Although I did get a hell of a lot more alcohol relief then. In contrast, everyone else, especially the crowd in Digestive, seems pleased about the lack of side effects with this Naproxen prescription, so I can’t complain. After all, He has me in mind for once. But He only takes only takes TWO of the THREE prescribed dosages for christ’s sake! Despite my current inflamed reputation, I swear I’m not usually this That’s what I find myself telling dates lately. The past few have given me the same look of just relax, and let’s have a good time. I can’t unwind with just two Gin and Tonics before dinner. I don’t want to get wasted on a preliminary date, so I lay off the Seven and Sevens and let them order us white zinfandel or cabernet. Can’t find anyone else to finish bottles of rum or jack in a night. No, not like that wino who would start with the cheapest bottle of merlot she could stomach. She’d drink me under the table ’til four or whenever we’d collapse. My memories of those nights probably aren’t This fall Cynthia and I had a couple nice times over enchiladas and margaritas though. She was fun and in great shape, so a good lay – like Him, Hers goes to the gym a lot too. But she doesn’t enjoy the kind of workout I get with lat pull-downs, bench pressing, and the fly machine. No, Hers is all treadmill and elliptical with a few five-pound dumbbells occasionally. Therefore Cynthia especially appreciated my way of telling Him how I hate treadmill days. During his 3 or 4 miles, I’ll tense up and scream I’m gonna ache later when everyone else is copasetic because you didn’t work me! Cynthia liked to appropriate my idiom and say work me ’til I ache, which post-coitally I found more annoying than seductive. Frankly, a great stretch is better than an orgasm. Unfortunately, rolling the shoulders or neck doesn’t cut it, so I take what I can get in either department. I’m sorry I can’t give girls stretches as terrifically as I get them off. I’m not as one-dimensional as I sound talking about drinking, working out, and sex. Most muscles aren’t, despite our utilitarian perception – just ask the triceps. We talk often about our favorite music and literature, especially Hemingway, Joyce, and Faulkner. Actually, I stopped seeing Cynthia because she’s hardly conversational or sensitive, and thinks I should make all decisions in bed, like Kate and Julia respectively. Christ, it’s hard to find compatibility anymore. Smokers and caffeine-addicts are too anxious and edgy. And couch potatoes just talk about TV and let themselves go like indifferent abs or pecs or the rhomboids, who, although my brothers, couldn’t give a shit about neck disproportion or helping the deltoids with shoulder tone. My friends tell me I don’t date well now because I’m too critical of the trendy scene (them included) – everyone is bisexual and ironic now. I really just want reciprocity without games. Ask every one of my ex-girlfriends as well as the medulla oblongata and they will all proclaim my reliability and dedication. I never let anyone down and I like to take care of others. I think if someone could likewise take care of me then a nice mutual relationship could work. I may be aggravated, but I’m not easily irritable. Sure sometimes I fancy working with the hips instead of the shoulders, but that’s mostly a personal bone I have with the rotator cuffs. Plus one of His lower lumbar disks is a misaligned bitch. I usually don’t ask for much O2 and yet I never cramp like the lower muscles. My soreness is more like the jaw’s after He chews gum for too long; it’s not like I’m susceptible to carpel tunnel or myotonia. Besides, most gals can relate, unless they’re spoiled traps who never lift a thing, get weekly massages, and have their hair blow-dried for them. I think I could date someone and maybe cut Him a break now that I’ve gotten this off my chest. Next I’m writing a play about a Grad student, no, an English professor named Poldy who quarrels with his French, inflamed trapezius, Pierce. Eventually the two agree that Poldy will try swimming and stop reading hypertext; in exchange, Pierce will fuck Poldy’s wife’s cranky trap, who is out of shape and thus sees no action. Rather than terse trapezean prose, I’ll make it an Edward Albee Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolfe? farce complete with debaucherous blue games. What do

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