I'm sorry I haven't posted anything in so long... I've been so sick and so busy and so mad about both that I haven't had time. And now I'm leaving for my Heathen Thanksgiving; that would be a holiday spent in a camper shell with dirty hair and a jagged cough and probably no pillow deep-frying a turkey and trying to figure out how to make stuffing over an open flame. I've been promising to go on this gig for four years but have always found a way to puss out and go to my parents' for chateau briand. This year I'm out of escape hatches. Unless the earth lurches off course and collides with the sun. That would be awesome.
I promise I'll do better when I get back. In the meantime, have a great Thanksgiving! Unless that whole "sun thing" happens. (
yessssssssssss.)
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I Have To Sell My Car Now To Score More Robitussin, So I Hope You're Fucking Happy.
I was up all night last night coughing like a fiend. Weird gasping nasty coughs, too; the kind where you lay awake willing yourself not to cough so the person in bed with you at three-fourteen and three-seventeen and three-eighteen and three-twenty and three-thirty-one a.m. won't ask you to pack your shit in the morning but you end up giving in to the cough EVERY TIME because you were never in the "No Cough Olympics" or the "Deny Yourself Intrinsic Reactions And Natural Privileges Army". So R gets up at six this morning; he had signed up to row a skull for the YMCA (yeah, exactly; what the fuck) and he's a such a sweetheart because he goes to the store first and he buys me some medicine. I wake up out of a disgruntled sleep (the time I didn't spend last night psyching myself out I spent staring squinty-eyed at the medicine cabinet trying desperately to find the invisible cough drops) to see R hovering above me, little plastic medicine cup brimming with thick numby goodness. I open up baby bird style and mumble a baby bird thank you.
The next thing I know it's like one in the afternoon. My heart rate is running like a Lear Jet out of Vegas and my whole head feels like it just got braces. Most disturbing, that one spot on the back of my skull; you know, the one where I passed out cold that time and slammed my head on the wrought iron bench? That spot is
tingling. The hair never grew back there. That's got "drunken cough syrup aneurysm reference point" written all over it. I palsy shake my way out of bed and try to get my shit together. Eat a little something. Put on some lipstick. Mainly I just slumped pasta-style on the couch all day, tentatively checking the back of my skull for clues and waiting for my peripheral vision to come back. It did, finally, and I took that opportunity to check out the bottle of laudanum in question. Apparently that little plastic cup that comes with the bottle? Yeah, the
adult dosage line is A QUARTER OF THE WAY UP THAT CUP. So I had FOUR ADULT DOSES OF MAXIMUM STRENGTH NIGHT-TIME COLD MEDICINE. What
IS that? Are you fucking KIDDING me? I think I need to DETOX now. Either that or go chill on the corner... wait for some loadie to score me some DayQuil.
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I thought that I had seen cool-ass hats before. I was wrong. The hat I got in a bonafide Ziplock bag from
Amy Choppa makes every other hat on the planet look... not cool-ass. And Choppa, the pompom is the
best pompom ever created in the history of pompoms. Just THINKING about "cutting it off" makes me wince with yarny pain. NEVER. I WILL WEAR THIS POMPOM TO THE
GRAVE. The Shell Raptor Guys started fighting over it immediately, so I
had to let them try it on. It didn't last long; they got over-excited and ran outside to take down an antelope. Carnivores don't typically last long at indoor games.
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Here are some pros and cons to being sick and gross and generally unpleasant to be around:PRO: For the first time that anyone can remember I don't jump up and launch into possessive tackle stance when someone in a twenty-foot vicinity says, "S'mores". R did it last night in an attempt to get me to eat something, and he braced himself against a wall and put his helmet on and everything, but aside from some deep-down primordial twinges I couldn't really be bothered. I mean, those graham crackers are so
pointy and
hard. Thinking about sharp graham crackers makes me want to cry.
CON: Other E happily ate ALL THE S'MORE MATERIALS last night. That's going to reeeeeeally piss me off when I can swallow.
PRO: No one's sure which Chapstick is theirs and no one wants mine, so I get
all the Chapsticks! Yay! I'm carrying them around with me in the front of my tee shirt and lining them up on the coffee table according to flavor.
CON: I bet I won't want to use any of these Chapsticks by Sunday. I bet I'll have to throw the little sick tubes away. And by then I'll be all
emotionally invested and shit. That makes me sad. I should go out right now and buy more Chapsticks to lessen that inevitable parting, but I know what would happen: I wouldn't be able to handle the suspense and I'd open all the new ones and infect them, and then I'd have to throw away like sixty sick tubes. Thinking about throwing away sick Chapstick makes me want to cry.
PRO: I finally have that solid reasoning I've been looking for to lay on the couch and watch cable all day.
CON: I have to stop doing this now. Typing hurts my fingers and makes me want to cry.
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It's Working A Little!
or
HURRY!
1) I started my period today. Here are some things I had to apologize to R for doing last week when in "the throes":
a) casually carrying on a conversation at the kitchen table while idly toying with my birth control pack, then nonchalantly popping out all of the useless "we know you're on your period right now but we also know that as a woman you're necessarily an incompetent moron who will never ever
ever remember to take your birth control pills if we let you take a
whole week off" sugar pills onto the table, then pausing midsentence to stare fixedly at them, then grabbing them up in my fists and shoving all seven of them into my mouth while chomping gloriously. That gets funnier every time I do it. But only to me.
b) Um, I think that was it, actually. But I had to apologize a
lot.
2) I was driving a friend's four-year-old daughter on an errand this morning, and I let her sit in her little chair-thing in the front seat since apparently Nissan didn't care about saving lives with airbags until 199
4 (or, as the baby said, "You don't have a parachute." True dat.). It was chill; she wore my sunglasses and we shared a Diet Coke while she covered her eyes from her first ever windshield view and pleaded with me not to hit anything. I knew that I had overplayed the "friend" hand when I started begging her to tell me where she saw that they were building a
Chic-fil-a. I.E.: "Yeah, but next to
which Red Lobster?"... "Uh, the one with the lobster on it? I'm FOUR." Oh yeah. You're still going to paint my nails later, though, right?
3) R put lotion all over his face like a total
guy and didn't: a) rub it in, or b) look in the mirror while he did it. He got mad when I told him he had "Sick
E.T. Mouth". "You know, " I said, "when E.T. is all sick and clammy and chalky and it looks like he's either turning into cheese or growing mushrooms on his face? WIPE YOUR MOUTH OFF." He was sort of offended. Whatever. Next time I'll just let him leave and some other woman can tell him he looks like he was licking Sick E.T.. I just thought he'd want to hear it from family.
Okay. It's freaking out again and I'm out of tissue. More tomorrow.
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Thank you guys so much for the advice... it must be my computer, though; it's still freezing up every ten seconds or so. (That one sentence took like three minutes.) And I'm unbelieveably sick today, so I bailed on school. I'm sitting here right now with my mouth hanging open so I can breath, begging my keyboard to make letters. I'm probably going to have to reformat my hard drive. Which I'm pretty excited about, seeing as I'm so computer savvy. Certainly nothing can go wrong THERE.
So keep hanging in there. I keep making weird little notes to myself of things I need to remember to tell you, so when my system starts cooperating (I'm surprised it didn't start behaving just now when it learned of the potential reformating home job) I'll have plenty of stuff to tell you.
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Friends,
My computer is a spyware whore. It needs an exorcism. It won't let me post. I've been trying to post for an hour, and I'm giving up. I'm not able to type, it's spontaneously publishing and then it switches to all caps. If anyone has any ideas on how to rectify, please let me know. I guess I'll have to post from the library tomorrow.
I'm seriously going to throw this piece of crap out the window,
Estella
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Sorry about the lack of posting this weekend.
The Captain and I spent a lot of time cavorting poolside, what with R out of town and all. Then I woke up at four this morning with the typical "there's less than a month left in the semester and people are expecting me to turn shit in, and The Captain probably isn't going to come through with that thesis proposal he promised" panic attack. So I'm at the library now. I can't even relay to you this current level of desperation. The good news is that I'm sure it will pass.
Expect a less desperate post tomorrow.
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R is gone.
He called. They broke down fifteen minutes from the house. Apparently they were drizzling fuel like a fuel-drizzling motherfucker and they had to stop at the neighborhood Home Depot for duct tape.
I laughed and laughed as if he hadn't just told me that a) they had wasted three precious traveling hours in a parking lot
four minutes from where we live, and b) despite- slash- because of the frenzied tape action there was a distinct possibility of blow-upedness.
I'm drunk.
I just emailed eight people from Classmates.com like this:
Dear So-and-So:
Hi. So do you hate my guts?
It's cool if you do,
Estella
I'm not kidding.
Everything I mentioned here will be a problem of cataclysmic proportion in the morning.
I'm going to bed.
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This is where R is going this weekend to ride dirt bikes and ATVs. He leaves this afternoon. I'm very excited for him. I helped him pick out a new helmet. I bought him some Mixed Nuts With Less Than Ten Percent Peanuts. I washed him some socks. I will wave from the driveway. I'm not fucking going.
I've been before. Here's a rundown: We drive until it's really desolate and late and dark and hot (usually one or two in the morning) and then we stop and -- by the light of NOTHING -- attempt to pitch a tent. In the sand. In the dark. In the hot. Some people go luxuriously crazy and
live it up;
not us. I shouldn't say that. We did bring one chair. Oh, and Hefty bags. So at least I had something to toss the salad in.
So we blow up the air mattresses... oh, wait! No we don't! They still have holes in them, remember? And we still left the pump at home. And we still left the pillows at home, too. Really I just curl up on the nylon tent floor (after trying to budge piercing underground boulders
through the nylon) with a tee shirt under my head. You can almost sleep through the abject and inescapable misery until: a) you wake up and have to pee and realize that this means walking out into the sand and pretty much just peeing (don't come back to the wrong tent. Awkward. Unless they have air mattresses. Then just lie down quietly and blend); b) your body temperature rises to over 116 and you're afraid to sleep because you might not wake up like that girl who fell asleep in the tanning bed; c) assholes like
this start riding in circles around your tent at four in the morning. It's pretty fun.
I think I like actually
riding the best. Here's how that goes. Every time. Without fail. But not necessarily in this order:
I lather myself up with sunscreen.
I strap on a man's helmet that's too big.
I follow everyone else, forgetting how steep and hard and scary this shit is.
I go over a giant dune that
looks like it levels out on top but really it just peaks and then dives into a literal 150 foot wall.
I jump off the machine, flailing and rolling when I hit the Inferno Blazing Lava Sand because it's important to me to keep my legs
and not be crushed by a rolling hunk of yellow plastic and engine.
The guys all laugh. "That was AWESOME!" they say. "Did you SEE that??? DUDE."
I am really pretty hurt. No one will believe it until the bruises start to come up the next day. I might see a doctor about that hip thing.
I get pissed "like a girl" and announce that I'm going back.
They ask if I know how.
I say yes.
I get lost on the way back.
I get the quad stuck on the way back and have to stand there futilely pulling and pushing a motionless eight hundred pound machine while riders stop and stare at me.
Some guy eventually stops to help.
He's inevitably the hottest guy I've ever seen, since I'm filthy and hurt and pissed and weak.
I thank him profusely and start again, relieved.
I get stuck again nine seconds later.
THAT SAME GUY WILL HELP. AGAIN.
I'll find camp ("Remember: our tent is the one with the
zipper. The ZIPPER.") two hours later.
The guys will all be there already.
One of them will be in the chair.
I will now realize that, when I rolled, the just-applied sunscreen attracted every grain of sand that wasn't doing something productive (i.e.: all of them) and I am covered in a glued-on layer of fine light sand. It hurts to brush it off. There is no
washing it off unless I want to find some random guy with an RV and offer up some action for a bowl of water. Which I don't want to do.
I get drunk. I have to.
I pass out, a human Snickerdoodle, only to wake up at three in the morning to the whine of two-stroke motors seven feet from my head. And I'm hungover.
The scorpions there are white. They start hanging around on the second day.
When you pick your tent up, there are mice under it.
Ten Percent Less Peanuts, Baby. You can't say I don't care.
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Wednesday! And It's All "I'm In A Shitty Mood" Titles, All The "I'm In A Shitty Mood" Time, Baby!
or
If You're In My Class And You Don't Spend Three Hours Of Class Time Either Staring At How Cunning Your Own Hair Looks Laying On Your Shoulder Or Repeatedly Taking Out A Ponytail Only To Put A Ponytail Right Back In So You Look Like An Obessive Hair-Slicking Machine With Penzoil Leaking Out Of Your Skull, Raise your Hand.
or
Except You, "Seriously Sucks Her Thumb In The Middle Of Every Class, Complete With Finger Curling And Infant-Like Mouth Suction " Girl. Put Both Of Your Fucking Hands In The Air. You Big Chappy-Thumbed Freak.
or
When I Said, "'Lust' In The Seven Deadly Sin Sense," And You Then Asked Me, "Which Seven Deadly Simpsons'?", You Looked Just Like A Retarded Person. Like, Dead Ringer. Dumbass.
or
Yes, My Paper Is Coming Along Fine, Thanks. That's Why I Tried To Get You To Extend The Due Date. To March. I Just Really, Really, Really Get Off On Proofreading.
or
Don't Eat These Unless You Regularly Eat Salted Polyurethane Foam. We're All Going To Die. Fucking Clown. Fucking Hamburglar.
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Sometimes You Think A Point Has Been Made About Pork Chops And You Find Out Later That You Were Wrong About That.
or
This Is The Post That Realistically Depicts The Number Of Times I Use The Word “Fuck”.
1) R and I spent a large part of Sunday morning watching “Trapped” on cable. The opening scene is between
Charlize Theron and a seventy-four pound
Kevin Bacon (at first I thought it was
Kenny Loggins on crack but the hair was just a
mite too “scarecrow”) when Charlize has just realized that Kevin has kidnapped her kid. As she points a gun at his chest contemplatively, Kevin sneers, “Just remember; the bullet that kills me also kills your daughter.” Whereupon Charlize defeatedly lowers the weapon. At this point (four minutes in, mind) R turns to me and goes, “If that were me, I’d shoot that motherfucker in his fucking
shin. Then I’d shoot him in his other fucking
shin. Then I’d try asking for my kid again.”
Huh. Good point. Charlize Theron is a pussy. And now this movie is based on fucking NOTHING. So I made fun of it for an hour before R went to the office, and then when he left and that circus freakshow called the “FBI” got involved and started
really fucking shit up (what with the squirting flower gags and pulling quarters out from behind each others' ears), I realized that if R wasn’t there to make fun of the movie with me then pretty much it was just me
watching it, and I couldn’t handle that so I went and took a shower.
The point of this story, you ask? Oh, it’s two-fold, my friends. Two. Fold. First fold: Kevin Bacon should absolutely have to make a new sequel to
Tremors each time they let him make something terrible that he
wants to do. At least then I could sit back and lose two hours watching some piece of shit like “Trapped” and know that there was a “Tremors 43: 'Dude, I Seriously Think We Should At Least
Consider Moving Out Of This Desert'” as a consolation prize.
And now I’m here, right in front of the second fold, and I can
not remember what it was! Fuck! It was a
really good fold! Well, shit. Sorry.
2) Moving on. R called this afternoon and I asked what he wanted for dinner.
“I don’t care,” he said. “Whatever you feel like.”
“I was thinking I’d do some pork chops and wild rice. How’s that?”
“Um,” he stammers. “I’m not really much of a ‘pork chop’ guy. You know what I could go for? That chicken you make with the ham? And the cheese? That sounds really good.”
“Okay. I can do that.”
So we’re having lasagna.
Who tells someone after three and a half years of mouthwatering porkchops that he’s just not a “porkchop” guy? I… I feel so lost.
And where the fuck is that other FOLD???
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Jammin To The Saturday Action!
or
I Can’t Narrow This Down To Anything. I Can’t Make Up My Mind. So In Lieu Of A Second Title, I Leave You With… ‘Jammidy-Jam-Jam, Sucka’”.
1) I think I should start out by saying that I moved the laptop into the family room this evening (I like to think that I can be somewhat attentive and social when coerced. And starved.) and EVEN AS WE SPEAK R is massaging my left foot like a truly sadist fiend. He’s popped all of my toes four times (he’s trying vehemently to get that little one off—I think he may have a buyer for it in Sacaton) and I keep open-mouthed screaming about the whole ingrown toenail issue that he insists can be alleviated via “vigorous rubbing”. I just wanted to put that out there. That this post
and this inhuman foot torture are happening simultaneously.
2) Some friends of ours threw a party on Saturday. These are your basic “
he’s a handsome and charismatic millionaire whose wardrobe is made up of black cashmere, black silk, black wool and black cotton, and he looks so goddamned good every fucking minute of every fucking day that he puts artists, actors and federal agents to profound and awkward shame, and
she’s a painfully beautiful heiress who looks phenomenal in any color lipstick, can whip up a creamy hollandaise or a cherry torte in seven minutes with nothing on hand but a peeled apple, some cornstarch and a bag of breadcrumbs and whose sex appeal daily forces legions of women to completely give the fuck up” folks. You know. So of course my natural reaction was to scream and tear up the invitation, never mentioning to R that we had ever been invited and feigning ignorance (which, surprisingly, I’m pretty good at) whenever someone mentioned that the event had even happened. But the invitation was one of those three-ply “(one) parchment overlay of coyotes, (two) formal embossed curlique cursive in gold leaf, (three) linen cardstock” gigs. My physical angst merely wrinkled one of the coyotes. Not good enough. We went to the party.
3) The party (and the coyotes would have tipped me off if I hadn’t been trying to squish them) was in honor of a “wildlife sculptor”; the house and yard were full to capacity with carved wildlife, price tag on the foot, thanks. I liked how they had tried so obviously to place the art in “natural” and “innocuous” places; the seals were by the pool next to the black bear grabbing a bronze salmon, the rabbits were in the garden, the owls had been somehow launched and requisitely spotlighted into a mesquite tree… the galloping pony IN the shallow end of the pool threw me*, but whatever. Not my party.
*Not really. I wasn’t
riding it or anything. Well. Not right
then.
3.5) R and I stumbled onto a married couple that we’d never met near the seals… the man looked at me smiling and asked, “So, how many pieces have you bought?”
“Seven.” I replied, my tiny solo cup full of Cabernet bobbing precariously under the weight of so much fine, fine jest.
He laughed. “Seven is a nice round number. We’re up to four ourselves.” And he pointed at his wife who was nuzzling a bronze bunny under one arm and a bronze kitty under the other.
We had to walk away before I freaked out and spilled my wine (and jest). I bet they have the cutest and bronzest house in the whole bronze and overpriced world.
3.75) Where the fuck is seven a “nice round number”? I’ll tell you what’s nice and round, Whipped Bronze Bunny Man… ZERO. And for every time you absently scratch behind bronze ears while you’re talking to me, I’m sticking my finger in a big sweet bronze eye when you go to the bathroom. YEAH, THAT’S WHAT I THOUGHT.
4) So R left me chatting with a woman I hate next to the artichoke dip (I told him in the car that he better not do that, and he clearly understood, but he also understood that I wasn’t going to leave the artichoke dip, no way-no how, so it was kind of a draw and I can’t really get mad) to go outside for a drink refill, only to return immediately because the ninety-year-old man in front of him had collapsed and the bartenders were doing CPR. It was true—I checked. The perfect hosts called the paramedics and everything was cool; half the people in attendance never knew anything had even happened. I think that a lot of them were trapped behind bronze wolves and cougars and things, and so they probably couldn’t hear or see a whole lot. Bronze predators are pretty good sound screens.
Don’t buy bronze animals. And if you absolutely have to, don’t put them in your pool.
Sometimes you have to talk to women you despise, but it only reinforces your love for artichoke dip.
Ninety year-old men who stop breathing will do better if you just give them a scotch.
Yeah, not really. Don't try that. Just call an ambulance.
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It's All About The Balance. And Yesterday Was A Balance Of Stupid and Stupid.
or
Sometimes The Yin Gets Really Loaded And Pretty Sick. Poor Yang. Yang's Tired And Doesn't Understand.
Dude.
I spent six hours at the bar yesterday drinking Corona. I ate a total of three nachos ALL AFTERNOON. Do you know how many nachos you have to eat to help out with an entire
day's worth of beer? Yeah. More than three. So then I came home and the
Captain was here watching Indiana Jones with R. So I had to be sociable. I probably should have made friends with a big giant cheeseburger while I was at it. But alas. Maybe I thought that the beer would soak up the rum. I failed chemistry.
So. Long story short: I was up all night drunk and sick and passionately convinced that whatever song happened to be playing repetitively in my head was directly proportional to the amount of "sick" I felt. " Toto's "Roseanna" = "stop it NOW or we're going to have to get up again"; Phil Collins' "Easy Lover" = "almost asleep almost asleep almost asleep...". Fucking Toto. I obviously failed fake drunk dream chemistry, too.
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Wednesday. Another Day That I Didn’t Get To Watch Television.
or
“24” Should Be On Wednesday Nights. Solve A LOT Of Problems.
1) So I had two papers due today. And I had them both done three hours BEFORE the start of class. One of them I actually
proof-read and then
edited. Yes. I said EDITED. I’ve never actually edited anything before; I mean, you know, not before the professor has gone ahead and
graded it. I would explain the circumstances as to why I showed this spontaneous burst of timely organization, except that I don’t have the slightest fucking clue. Maybe my subconscious didn’t want to spend a surreally long nocturnal Tuesday night with the overhead light penetrating my greasy skull, free-basing No-Doze and crying, only to inevitably fall asleep in a sweaty heap on the floor wrapped in a musty afghan with cherry Popsicle wrappers stuck to my legs, forcing me to finish the project in a literal burst of insanity ten minutes after class has officially started. Maybe that. I don’t know. Anyway. I got them done. I’m the best student ever.
2) On that note, I’m thinking that maybe I’ll feign amnesia along about the first of December when my thesis proposal is due. I’m writing up a list of the words that I should pretend to have somehow forgotten. The list is alphabetical. And typed. See? BEST STUDENT EVER.
3) Oh! As per your advice, I wrote one of my papers on how Robert E. Lee and Ulysses S. Grant and
Kelly all like ponies. And ells. It seemed a little bit disjointed until I threw in that I like to “travell”. That was my closing paragraph, and I think it all tied in together nicely.
4) BEST.
5) STUDENT.
6) EVER.
7) Wait, what? What’s this “student” thing you keep talking about? Is that like “toast”? Or “pecans”? I DON’T UNDERSTAND YOU!
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Tuesday: The Black Hole Of Days
or
I Had A Long Comfy Cozy Introspective And Mind-Numbing Coversation Today With Mister Thomas Nashe, And I'm More Than Happy To Provide You With A Timeline To Prove It, Thank You Very Much, No, Thank You.
6:45 - 7:33 am: While fighting off amorous advances I wondered how in the holy hell the actual
sound of the CD furiously spinning in the alarm was louder than the
music on the Eagles "You're A Generic Person With No Sense of Individuality But Thanks For Buying The Seventy-Nine Millionth Copy Of Our Album Just Because You Remember That Your Parents Used To Drink Coors Original To "Witchy Woman" In The Carport When You Were Eight" Greatest Hits CD.
7:33 - 8: 27 am: Succumbed to amorous advances after brutally cold temperatures (71! Brrrrr!) forced a co-bath. This was after R had said that if he was going to be the first one in bed at night, he was damn well staying on
his side of the bed so that I couldn't "milk" his "bed heat rays". Apparently I'm a "Heat Hyena"-- I scavenger for the heat. This is true. I won't deny this. I can't explain why he agreed to a nice, warm co-bath. No idea. Can't fathom. Stuck.
8:27 am- 1:43 pm: THOMAS NASHE AND THE EVIL UNFORTUNATE TRAVELLER (SPELLED WITH TWO ELLS!
TWO ELLS!). Paper due tomorrow at five. I hate school.
1:43 - 1:52 pm: Yogurt.
1:52 - 6:57 pm: I WISH THAT THOMAS NASHE WAS HERE RIGHT NOW SO I COULD PUNCH HIM IN HIS WEASLY JAW. AND THEN YANK HIS "I'M OLD AND DEAD" CANE AWAY AND POKE HIM WITH IT. POKE. POKE.
6:57 - 7:03 pm: Wrote a note to R explaining that I finished The Paper Of Dread And Wrongness and that I went to the gym. I wrote this note four words at a time on tiny Post Its which I then stuck on the refrigerator in a big elementary school Christmas chain. Surprisingly enough, he didn't see it. Or he
saw it, but he thought it was actually an elementary school Christmas chain made out of tiny Post Its. Men. I gotta change my MO.
7:03 - 8:26 pm: Gym. I was on a bike reading the latest brilliant and sexy and addictive
John Sandford detective novel when suddenly the queen to my right screamed "FUUUUUCK!" when he happened to remember that the new "24" was going to be on in fifteen minutes. He actually got up,
ran to his car, drove home to set the VCR, and came back. Jesus Christ. ( I know all of this because he was loud. LOUD. And my paperback doesn't have headphones.)
Thomas Nashe is a big dead nightmare. That I'm apparently writing a twenty page paper on.
Christmas chains are easily dissassembled!
GUYS! C'mon!
Don't watch "24". Keifer Sutherland is a played-out asshole.
John Sandford novels should have headphones to block out anything not detective novelish. If a SWAT team bursts through the door of the gym and a ruggedly handsome detective in an Italian sharp-cut suit wants to nonchalantly ask me a few questions, I could probably hear THAT. THAT or hot women.
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I really wasn't upset yesterday; I feel like I should maybe level shit out as proof. I mean, yeah; no one understood my Halloween costume, but that was sort of my intention. Before I got into my sequined bustier phase, I was always a ridiculously benign inanimate object. A ceiling fan one year, a single grape one year, a knob off the stove another year... I remember being inordinately pissed that my mother wasn't willing to put in the man hours on my "pane of glass" costume in the fifth grade. So if no one holding a martini with a candy corn floating in it understood Lacan and my Personal Mirror Phase Personification, that's cool. It actually helps me sleep better at night, knowing that Lacan is still fundamentally uninteresting and not worth flinging wet candy corn about. (I loved
Sara's Foucault comment because I ALMOST GAVE IN AND DRESSED UP AS FOUCAULT! But I was going to go as the archetypical nameless Magritte guy in a bowler and carry a "ceci n'est pas une pomme" sign with an apple taped to my face... nevermind.)
R and I
did fight-- oh, and arduously painful! ARDUOUSLY PAINFUL! (not really)-- but I like to think I'm like my mother when it comes to fighting with men: when she and my father went to spend the weekend at a resort hotel for their thirtieth anniversary and my dad, having apparently been brutally spurned, showed up at home unexpectedly at one in the morning drunk and alone and wanting to smash stuff with the lamp when he should have been getting his thirty-year freak on, and he ate some Yoplait and took a power nap and then went back to the resort the next morning to lay blissfully and lovingly by the pool with my gorgeous mother for two days, my mother later unabashedly explained that "we hardly ever fight, but when we do, move quickly because someone's going to try to hit you with the car. We're just passionate that way." Dad overheard; he nodded and saluted, one hand holding the ice pack on his shin. It must be a lineage thing.
As for the thesis... I shouldn't even bring it up in jest. Arduously painful! ARDUOUSLY PAINFUL! (not... fuck it. Yeah. It is.)
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You're SUCH A Liar.
or
It's Like When You're Playing UNO With Your Grandparents And Your Spinster Aunt After All Of The Normal, Drunk Adults Are Sleeping. REVERSE It. FUCK The Color-Blind Cousin To Your Left.
1) Halloween! What a blast! I dressed up in fifteen different costumes, each one sexier and more BLING! than the last. By my last costume Saudi royalty was begging "No more!" and the Hilton sisters gave me dubs. The mere suggestion that my Lacan-influenced "Signifier - slash - Signified" costume was "NOT sexy" is ludicrous. People LOVED it. Particularly the bridle.
2) R and I got along like cherry sugar-free Jello and Extra Creamy Cool Whip ALLLLLL weekend. No fights here. Especially no fights where I cry for three hours, seemingly over a stereo-setup misunderstanding but
really over a masculinely innocuous yet femininely horrific comment made in front of dinner company. I wouldn't do that. I
especially wouldn't do that and then
make up stuff to help my tear-streaked, gooey, trembling, three-quarters invalid point! But I was right! I mean... nothing happened!
3) I don't have a blazing headache right now. And it has nothing to do with wine. Especially the red kind.
4) When I babysat on Saturday, it went well. No one knocked their head on the metal bar of the trampoline within sixteen seconds of walking through the front door. And I got a good night's sleep that night. In a sleeping bag. On the wooden floor. With a baby. Who's not mine. Oh, and the air conditioner? Yeah, let's
leave it at negative four hundred thousand degrees. Mmmm. Cozy.
5) Oh, I finished my thesis yesterday! Yeah, it's really good. My chair sent me an email this afternoon... well, actually he/she sent me two emails: one was just "I..... I..... I..... I..... I..... I..... I..... I..... " over and over for seventeen pages, the second was a recommendation for an honorary PhD. And there was a letter from
Louise Erdrich attached: she thinks that my work may keep future generations from killing each other in rage-filled and catastrophic ways. There were actual tear-drops.
On the email attachment. I'm just that good.
6) I'm so not tired right now, I think I'll stay up for the next month... just to see what happens! Just me and the night times. Night times and me. Up in a tree. With the wee little bee. Not tired even a tiny tiny tiny bit.
I love trampolines.
I love sleeping bags.
Let's all freeze together!
And leave our men for no good reason!
I AM NOT A SIGNIFIED!
(OR MAYBE I AM... I FORGET.)
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