I Am Allergic to July

I can tell I'm becoming responsible because I stopped getting those hangovers where I spend all day moaning and sweating and bitching about Margot Kidder's Lois Lane eye make up. Haven't had one of those in months. There are several reasons for this, the main one being dread, the second one being I stopped watching Superman whenever I had a hangover. Superman used to be my official Lonely Hangover Movie, but lately I've been watching Stardust because it reminds me of a guy I barely knew before I started having shitty summers. Or was it the first shitty summer?

I hate remembering unrequited crushes, but I do it all the same. Remembering them is much better than having them, because I can jiggle my memories around to convince myself he really actually returned the feelings and was too scared to act upon them. Or something.

The current unrequited crush is a fucking doozy that's been on and off for like three years, and whenever I see him I act like an asshole. Last summer he came into the office to drop of some prints when my face was at its most swollen. Even though I swore to keep the more attractive profile facing him during our conversation, when he asked how I was doing I immediately cranked my neck around, pointed at my jaw and declared, "Well, I'd be a lot better if I didn't have this fucking goiter growing out of my face. Check it, from this side I'm Marlon Brando."

"Wild One Brando or Apocalypse Now?"

"Doctor Moreau."

And then he laughed a real laugh, not one of those fake ones. See, it's those conversations that make him so dreamy. Do I have the balls to ask him out at all? No, and I don't think I ever will.

The past four summers, I've had some fucking ridiculous health problem. One summer I developed an allergic reaction to my lotion, and my hands were covered in cracks and blisters for two months before I discovered the cause. I didn't have health insurance then. Last summer was the swollen face and the liver ultrasound debacle, which was a fucking hoot. The summer before...okay, it wasn't so much of a "health problem" as it was a "crying problem."

On Saturday my eye swelled up. There is a fucking stye. Was a stye. It's basically gone now, but I look like I'm getting over a wicked shiner, and I've been make jokes about spousal abuse.

Tomorrow, the crush will be stopping by the office. Of course.

This post started off as one thing and now I don't remember where I am anymore.

Okay, so I'm actively avoiding hangovers. That, my friends, is the equivalent of willingness to accept responsibility for my irresponsibility. And old age. And the fact that MoLinder isn't here anymore and I don't have a drinking buddy at home.

But CrazyLiz moved in today, whom I love dearly, and along with her a one-eyed cat built like a tank named Oscar and a pepper-faced chocolate lab named Harley. Harley will only be here for a month, but hot damn, I'm excited.

For one month I will have a dog. Things are lookin' up for ole Rassles.

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