.the catastrophic violence of a chair dropped on a foot.

so yesterday, in an unexpected fit of productivity, i sit down at the computer to work on my ever imperfect cover letter. the chair we have in front of the computer is wobbly, so i carry it to the side of the room and grab one of the dining room chairs to replace it. ironically, the chair i grab is just as wobbly, but it has a cute green varnish and a velvet chair cover, so it'll do just fine. i swing the chair over my head and time slows down while i watch the wooden seat cushion dislodge from the chair and fall straight down onto my big toe. it was one of those cliche movie situations where i'm thinking clearly, "that seat cushion is totally going to fall on your toe and it will hurt pretty badly so you should probably move your foot." but i just stand there and watch the accident go down.

i react by hopping around on the other foot, yelling fuck fuck fuck, and throwing myself onto our purple living room couch. this is all a pretty standard reaction to such a minor household injury, but i take it a step farther by breaking immediately into hysterical sobs. it's the first day of october and it's almost 80 degrees out, thanks to the ozone layer having gone to shit, but we all get some really beautiful weather out of it so nobody's complaining. all of our windows are open and i'm thinking that the neighbors can surely here the alarming noises of chairs falling and a woman crying, but all i can do is hold my leg and continue to sob. i'm thinking: i broke my toe and i don't have health insurance and i don't have a job and what the fuck am i going to do?

two hours and a cup of chamomile tea later, my toe is fine. my toe was never broken. i'm a hypochondriac. if you mention an illness to me, i'll immediately contract every symptom. try me. i've had cancer, multiple sclerosis, diabetes, and hypothyroidism on many lonely afternoons and i've started awake on more than one morning with the terrifying realization that i have aids. my perception of my crumbling health is in laughable contrast to reality: i'm in perfectly fine shape. i even eat my vegetables.

this tantrum about the hypothetical broken toe is, while obviously ridiculous, not out of the ordinary. last week, i carried a pot of ramen off the stove and splashed the salty, scalding water all over hand. i reacted with what first seemed a normal amount of wrath: i threw the pot in the sink and the bowl of ramen on the counter and clutched my hand. but instead of yelling "fuck" of "damn" like a regular person, i burst into sudden tears and shouted at my roommate something to the effect of, "i don't have a job and i'm going to die alone."

clearly, i'm in a state of elevated stress on account of being unemployed. but does this justify this series of irrational and catastrophic tantrums? how long will the neighbors stand for this deafening hysteria?

one of these days i'm going to have to accept that a stubbed toe hurts, but the pain ends below the ankle. one scalded hand does not need to crack open a comprehensive vault of fears and insecurities. next time i hurt myself around the house, let me have the dignity to throw a pot, yell a profanity, and leave it at that. the neighbors will thank me.

.forest park.

i thought owls were nocturnal. they hunt at night, and during the daytime they just hide or sleep or something.

yesterday morning i went for a walk in forest park, portland's magnificent urban wilderness. i go for a lot of walks in forest park because it's close to home, densely wooded, and populated with a lot of hip families with bounding dogs. going for a walk seems like a dignified and purposeful activity on a saturday morning when i don't know what to do with myself. which is every saturday morning.

i love hiking because even on a blindingly sunny day, the forest is damp and dark and dappled. it's not even bright enough to take a clear picture. even the dog shit is covered in mold and has the appearance of powdered doughnuts decorating the side of the path. everything smells like decomposition and has the color of camouflage. i love that my palms end up dirty because i can't resist touching tree trunks and picking up leaves. i also love not having to talk to anyone.

i hear a lot of snippets of conversation on my way up the hill. lots of couples - two women friends, husbands and wives - always deliberating on the challenges and frustrations of relationships. "i always feel like i'm being taken advantage of," is all i hear one woman say. but i know exactly what she's talking about.

i'm meandering back down the hill to my car, and thank god i'm not starving because i had the forethought to actually eat breakfast, and i'm stopping to look at banana slugs and yellow leaves and mushrooms growing on logs and i'm taking a long time for a short walk. i have just picked up the pace when i stop suddenly at the sight of what appears to be big kitty flying across the stream. it was a goddamn owl, huge and brown and just like in the harry potter movies. i've never seen anything like it in real life. over the course of the next ten minutes it stalks fish in the stream with the quick and alert expression of my cat hunting spiders in the bathroom. it swoops down with spread wings and clutches a fish in its talons, swings back up to perch on a tree branch, and feeds itself fish like a fat sports fan eats potato chips.