From my bedroom window, I can see all of Austin. All of Austin that matters.
From my bathroom, too, I can see all of Austin, and nothing is so disturbing as to be a middle class American, sitting on your toilet, and looking out at the world while thinking, "I shit upon you World." This hits a little too close to the truth, and being in that vulnerable position does nothing to shield you from the deep genital shame this induces. The source of all shame--our genitalia. I kid, that is far from being true, but it's easy to believe.
I have an ever-growing list of fatal ailments which "I know I don't have." I don't have a weakened blood vessel running near the base of my skull that will eventually betray me to aneurysm, I tell myself with conviction. No possible way will I learn of the tumor in my spine only after it has metastasized beyond hope. No way because I don't have a spinal tumor. Yes, I pretend to be very much in control of my hypochondria until those brief sweet moments when I imagine what life would be like if I weren't dying of uterine cancer. At such moments, my dimentia has obviously exceeded the bounds of rationalization, and I have the good sense to enjoy the respite my imagination affords me. "Ahhhhh, what if..."
Anyway, the last thing you should know about me is that my dog is at her element when playing the martyr. As is evidenced by this picture of her receiving a bath. She has never looked more in character or displayed a more fully developed personality.
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