Fresh Meat Sandwiches
22 October 1998
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Fresh Meat Sandwiches
22 October 1998
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I'm definitely getting more risk-averse with time. Yes, that's a polite way to put it. I took BART over to Berkeley tonight to see Tai Chi Master and Last Hero in China. (Amazingly, despite MUNI's best efforts, I got there on time, too.) On the way home, the train was up on the elevated portion of the track that goes up to the Macarthur station, and as it tends to do, the car was swaying back and forth a bit, especially as it went into curves.
I found I couldn't stop imagining the train somehow coming detached from the tracks and rocking right off and over on its side, plummeting down to the street below. God, even now, just typing that evokes feelings strong enough to make my knees quiver. I hate heights, I always have, but honestly I know that BART makes this run all the time. The odds of anything like that happening - short of an earthquake - are pretty low. Tell it to my limbic system. Gaaaagh.
When I transferred over to the San Francisco train, I had to sit in the middle of the car, on the aisle seat, and keep my head down and focused entirely on what I was reading, so I wouldn't catch any glimpses of the city going by underneath us. It's not there, it's not there, I'm not here, I am not thinking about that goddamn pink elephant. Good thing my immediately-older brother wasn't around. This is just the frame of mind that he used to wait for me to get into, so he could sneak up behind and me and yell "BOO!" I think he found it amusing to watch me scream and jump straight up into the air. A comic delight for all.
Maybe it was just the bad day at work, the excessive amount of popcorn weighing on my digestive system, the inevitable movie-head effects of a double feature. Or, maybe I'm just an incredible coward.
And then! I get home and find in the mail a bill from SF General Hospital for $300. The same $300 I already paid them, for when I had to go to the emergency room with a broken collarbone. The $300 I had to pay myself because my wonderful HMO wouldn't authorize coverage, because a broken collarbone wasn't life-threatening, and so it was unnecessary for me to go to the hospital. Argh. I'd like to take some of their policy makers out into the boonies of Potrero Hill at 11 PM and break their collarbones, and then solicit their opinions on the matter.
Sometimes I wonder why I don't want anything to do with the outside world, and would rather just find shelter here in my squirrel cage. Sometimes I don't wonder at all.
Willfully blind self-indulgent nebbish or amusingly quirky old coot? And how bout that local sports team? Discuss among yourselves.
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All names are fake, most places are real, the
author is definitely
unreliable but it's all in good fun. Yep.
© 1998-1999 Lighthouse for the Deaf. All rights reserved and stuff. The motto at the top of the page is a graffito I saw on Brunswick Street in Melbourne. | ||||
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