Give me an ice pick lobotomy. Get it over with.

I am terrible with infatuation. It’s the kind of thing where, once it gets into my bloodstream, my driver’s license should probably be revoked. I realize that it’s normal for people to “get the hots” – or whatever euphemism you like best – for other people. However, I don’t see any of my other friends getting bug-eyed and manic every time someone whose appearance they find to be exceptionally alluring walks into the room. Furthermore, I’ve never heard of any of my friends, with their pupils dilating at unequal sizes, damage private property under the misconception that such an act is commonly accepted as an equivalent to giving someone a bouquet of flowers.

That’s what it’s like for me. Interacting with someone I’m really into is more or less hopeless, because when I see them, it’s like my brain is a bathtub and a toaster has been dropped in it. Everything’s on the fritz, all systems are down. Lots of laughter. Laughter at inappropriate times. Laughter that won’t stop. And other stupid stuff like, if I were to learn that the Exceptionally Gorgeous Individual liked jigsaw puzzles, I might stuff both my mouth and fists with puzzle pieces and make laps around their front yard, or apartment building for that matter, spitting and violently sprinkling them (…if sprinkling is an act one can accomplish in a violent fashion…) all willy nilly, twitching, electric, uncontrolled, repeatedly screaming, “I FIXED IT! I FIXED IT!” Lord knows why those words in particular. I have no clue, despite the fact that they’d be coming out of my mouth.

Just ask my Satanist High School Boyfriend: if I don’t find myself all flustered and surprised that breakable things like microwave plates indeed break when I toss them onto the ground, then I’m probably just not that into you.

Because everyone knows that all the most romantic conversations must begin with, “Hi. I’m covered in algae. I was going to play an accordion under your window, but, puzzle pieces. Some of which I put in my mouth to impress you. And I may have smashed my face against your driveway a few times, not to impress you, but because I can’t control my feelings. Would you like a tooth as a token of my heart palpitations? BTW, you’re so dangerously gorgeous, your face should be illegal. Just sayin.” The phrases barely strung together, of course, through the aforementioned fits of uncontrollable giggling.

My landlord has graciously pointed out to me that if these Exceptionally Gorgeous Individuals really do like me, they’ll be able to handle my weirdness (or something). However, as disappointing as it is when some of them don’t, I really don’t need them to like me. I’m not looking for petty-misdemeanor courtships and padded-room romances – I am a nun, ya know. Even if I weren’t a nun, the fact would still remain that when I’m under this influence, coherent thoughts regarding such things are not impossible to formulate. Oh, no. With unbearable urgency, all I would want is enough exposure to their mind-numbing beauty to distill it into a serum and inject with a syringe, after which I would sit on the edge of the bathtub that is my fried, smoking mind, with the ordinarily-screaming woman in my head (who, in this scenario, is pacified with…well…a pacifier stolen from the resident toddler) and eat cupcakes made out of my uterus. Because, Gentle Reader, ripping out my uterus, sacrificing it to the first deities readily accessible in my orbit of consciousness, and making cupcakes out of said sacrificed uterus, is exactly the kind of thing I do when under the influence of infatuation.

Bonus points to you if any of that made sense.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have furball collages to compile and restraining orders to inspire.

On a housekeeping note: that b.s.’d church history paper I promised is on its way. It’s just taking a while because it’s being approached with as much foot dragging and superfluous whining as my real church history paper (which I have no intention of b.s.ing). All the more authentic, then, oui?

How I Wish I Could Have Replied When My Satanist-High-School-Boyfriend Emailed And Asked Me Where I Am These Days

Dear Satanist-High-School-Boyfriend,*

What a pleasant surprise to hear from you! And how thoughtful of you to inquire of my whereabouts! I am definitely NOT still living with my parents, sleeping in the same bedroom I was sleeping in when we dated ten years ago, and I definitely WILL NOT overcompensate for the flourish of insecurity such a scenario would inspire by writing a blogpost about it.

Furthermore, I am definitely NOT still slogging through undergrad coursework – I already have my baccalaureate in English literature, not just the Associate’s degree I have hanging on my wall, which my dad had framed because he was so excited that I actually accomplished SOMETHING in my adult life. In fact, I have a doctorate. That’s right. I am Dr. Sister Kathryn Stephanie English-Major, PhD. My adoring fans…I mean students…I mean patients(?) call me Dr. KEM for short.

I spent my early 20’s as a novice, then a nun, at the convent at Lilith Cathedral in South Narnia (no, not the fictional place, the place I made up. There’s a difference). I oversaw a massive and unpopular project to restore mandatory habit-wearing amongst the nuns. While receiving the imposition of ashes one Ash Wednesday, my glow-in-the-dark nail polish caught the attention of a cardinal, who nominated me to join the Pope on his semi-annual climb to the summit of Mount Everest. They insisted. I graciously accepted.

When the Pope and I got to the summit, we celebrated with Peach Schnapps while listening to the selection of Coldplay songs he had on his phone. Normally, I would have preferred something of the punk persuasion, but I was tipsy enough from both the booze and the elevation that it didn’t matter much to me. It was after our descent that I was awarded an honorary doctorate from Saint Thecla’s University. Even though it was honorary, I insisted on writing a dissertation anyway, because it was The Right Thing To Do, I felt. My dissertation used Buffy the Vampire Slayer to explain the πth century phenomenon of donuts and Docetism, for which I was awarded the Nobel Win-Prize. To celebrate, I got a tattoo of Anne Boleyn (because, who else?). Her body is on my forearm, and her head is on my ribs. I wanted it on my stomach, but the tattoo artist talked me out of it lest I acquire a beer belly or become pregnant (whichever comes first).

As for my current place of residence, to answer your initial question, I live in a tent in the backyard of a Kindle-millionaire in Mount Shasta. I spend my days telecommuting to Saint Thecla’s (I teach in the departments of Psuedographia and Buffy Studies), and reading the numerous ARCs publishers send my way. I just finished Michelle Tea’s biography of Yours Truly, but declined to contribute a quote for the jacket, because, well, that felt pretentious and a little silly. Don’t you think?

I’ve also been tutoring my Shasta-friend’s toddler in Sanskrit, because of course I’m fluent in Sanskrit. It’s really the least I can do, seeing as she and her husband are allowing me to stay here while my mansion in the Rockies is being completed. It’s very complicated, you see, as it requires a cave to be dug out of solid granite with matching spiral staircases.

Also, in case you didn’t notice, I changed my middle name to Stephanie.

Toodles!

-Dr. KEM



* Was the boyfriend Satanist, or was the high school? (I’m not telling.)