|
|
|
- Since we last met, I have: dominated (no surprise there), become increasingly fed up with my job, begun plotting my exit strategy, taken an ice bath, received $300 from myself and others (thanks George W.! I'll use this to pay rent!), watched some movies, not gotten enough sleep, taken one Tylenol PM, done laundry. Since we last met, I've been pretty okay. I'm way radder than I was then, you have no idea. You, though, I bet, you're probably exactly the same - binging, purging, using colons and semicolons in odd and incorrect ways. She's probably wearing '80s outfits - flats with skinny jeans, heels with bermuda shorts, headbands with long tails - and you two are probably convinced that your trendiness reflects your good taste. Don't bother sending me a wedding invitation and I don't want to know that you're having babies right this very second. - I'm so over you dude, I'm so sure. Since we last met, I've stopped losing weight, which can only be a good thing, I suppose, although now I can't help but wish I was 5 pounds lighter again, just 5 pounds. My hair is super long and it's driving me crazy. I'm even contemplating going to a real live haircutterperson to get some fancy-schmancy haircut rather than doing it myself, for some shape, some direction. I'm wearing trial contacts this week, can you tell how much better I'm seeing? Turns out I don't need astigmatism correction, my last eye doctor was crazy, and no wonder my glasses made my eyes all wonky. Since we last met, I've abandoned any great literary aspirations I might have once had - turns out I'm really not a good writer at all, I just have an overactive imagination and I know how to type. So from here on out until I change my mind anything and everything will be expressed through ridiculous and bad Myrtle B. Jones episodes. Why? Because - at least those make me laugh. Someone we knew killed himself - I was looking at a picture of him last night and crying in my kitchen. I never got to say anything meaningful to him, but if I could right now, I'd say: it's okay, man, you're okay. My aunt has cancer; a girl two years older than me died last night, eight years after being diagnosed with inflammatory breast cancer. My lupins are about to bloom. The rivers have risen and fallen and risen again. A year before my grandma died my sisters and I were visiting her in Denver. She was tired, falling asleep before our eyes, but trying so hard to stay awake to talk to us - it was so important to her, imperative to stay awake. She knew she didn't have time to take a nap - her granddaughters were leaving the next morning and she had to tell them things, everything she could think of. I'm left thinking about this now, why it was so important to her to stay awake and spend a few more minutes with us. She was the sweetest, cutest grandma. If I could live out my days among cottonwoods and rolling fields, trimmed lawns and painted fences, watermelons and automobiles, the highest I could aspire to would be to be half as sweet as she was.
|