I feel ill

And it is not because all I have eaten all day was a quesadilla at 8 am, a handful of trail mix on the fly, and several (too many) chocolates (bad american ones, if they had been Neuhaus, it could possibly have been justified). No, the pit in my stomach, the knots in my entrails...well, I am sure we can guess that they are from the current polling info. God. I know that the west coast has not been counted, and Florida is not yet announced... but, how can Bush have 193 electoral votes to Kerry's 133 when they have a total of 1000 give or take of difference. Fuck the electoral college, why? why? why? if we can't count all the fucking votes anyhow, then why can't they just count?

Maybe it is best to just wash my hands and dissappear, erasing myself linguistically. I _can_ pass for Mexican if I want, really and truly... I even taught myself to say Parangaricutirimicuaro, so that I could fool even the most skeptical of critics. Problem is, I actually love writing in English. I mean, I really am divided in half, but if I were to add more languages, like costumes to my ajuar, the greatest part of me would still feel, most deeply, in English, the language of the oppressors (not that Spanish isn't or wasn't, too, in its moment.)

Ok, Kerry just won California, but that was to be expected. I really must now do the grading I haven't wanted to do. Isabella greeted me at the door in full regalia, shiny blue princess dress, purple tiara and deep red lips (she owns more make-up than I) but even that wasn't enough to lift my foul mood. My back feels as if someone has pummeled it, repeatedly, and the evil ache where the epidural needle pierced my spinal chord (against my will) has never, and will most likely never, go away. It is interesting how our bodies are marked, forever, in such strange ways. I feel so dissastisfied... but I couldn't seem to dilate...(Ani reference for those of you not in the know), the scars a reminder of places that we have been and will perhaps never go again.

I feel like I should do something self-destructive, tantamount to eating meat (except that the last time I felt this way, I did just that, and I haven't stopped yet), if anorexia were a viable option, I might go there, but I am of peasant stock, Russian steppes couldn't destroy me, and I fear that it would make little difference whether I eat or not. The ending of "Breaking the Waves" seems so appropriate, but for my little creature who would be so lost without me, I would be in the leather skirt, out on the boat, letting my physical body be ravaged in order to escape this earthly pain. Tearless, raging sob. I think that I will go vomit now, or pee, these nerves are going to drive me mad.

Already makng plans for where I will live. Strangely escapist being an ex-pat, I think. World citizenship, the rule of international morality... will remain but a fleeting illusion, to be pursued, and never attained, everywhere is war. Bob was right to just let himself whither, Rastafari, cancer entering from the earth, and consuming, reclaiming to the darkness, leaving only a luminescent shine. Now, I really must go, especially because my pain is really only interesting to me, and I have very untwinkly responsibilities...