middle of the middle of the night

Storm woke me up. Woman screaming in the parking lot of the bar across the way. Screaming apologies, so that's not creepy or anything. She sounds like a Splicer from Bioshock.

So I queued up some Calexico and opened up this here blog window and figure I'll have my way with some words. I've laid around thinking enough over the last few weeks. You'd think I'd have some output by now.

But no, not really. Not that I can access, anyway. Not yet. I'm reading and watching and listening to a ton of stuff, but I don't really have it in me at the moment to come up with a decent reaction to anything. There's just so much happening, and it's all way too fast for me to process. Ain't that always the way.

I sat down with Calling Dr. Laura by Nicole J. Georges this evening and read it all the way through. Cried once, full scale tears, at the picture of the dogs coming to her rescue all together on the life preserver. It was such a lovely, sweet image. 

I was thinking as I opened the book about how I am not good at reviewing things. I tend to like things immediately (or hate things) and I am not any good at level headed criticism. No, really. 

The first time I read Tuesdays With Morrie, I absolutely loved it. And I wasn't nine! I was like, twenty-eight or something. Same with Eat, Pray, Love. I know. I'm sorry. I hope we can still be friends. But seriously, I tend to suspend my disbelief maybe a little too well when I sit down with a book? I listen to the author and I usually automatically respect a voice that sounds, to me, sincere. It can be a problem. Later I can usually shake it off and come to terms with the ridiculousness of the narrative, usually with the help of some more critical friends who ask very important questions I conveniently forgot while reading, but I tend to be sort of the worst person to ask when it comes to memoirs, because I'm like, drunk on the glory of being inside someone else's head for a minute. Or maybe it's not just memoirs. But I seem to read a lot of those and that is on-topic.

So I won't tell you what I thought of this book that I read in one gulp, crying in the middle, having already heard part of the story when I heard Julie Klausner interview Georges on How Was Your Week. Julie Klausner who I also love on Twitter, Julie Klausner who everyone has to listen to me talk about since I first heard her show because Stitcher recommended it and I was walking back to the office after lunch and I was like, "WTF Stitcher, don't tell me who to listen to, I'll skip this goddamn show - wait, what?"

But back to Calling Dr. Laura. That part where she talks about developing a response to emotional stress that mimicked a fainting goat? Totally resonated. Shockingly close to how I feel - I remember being married and James trying to talk to me about something important and distressing to him, and I was really TRYING to pay attention but getting stuck looking at the lint on the bedspread thinking why didn't I get milk today god I'm so TIRED if I could just curl up and take a little nap - shit, no, pay attention! What was he saying? And he'd be looking at me like I didn't understand and I clearly DIDN'T understand, and I always thought that was just me being a narcissistic freak, and maybe it really is, but at least I'm not the only one.

Besides, I'm much better now. But I totally relate to the fainting goats analogy. Stress doesn't have quite as direct an effect on me at this point in my life. Perhaps I have toughened up like an old fainting goat who doesn't faint anymore, but runs away on stiff legs.

I did take up running rather late in life.

Tee hee.

new project: How to KICK ASS at Being Homeless! may encounter slight delays.

I did a bit of reading up on homelessness and how to handle it, what to do, how to help, etc. Like you do. I came across this article on squidoo.com - What to Buy if You Are Homeless. Freshly inspired, I grabbed my keys and ran out the door to buy ALL THE THINGS!

Okay. You can look at this a couple of ways. You could say I just took another opportunity to PURCHASE a solution. I could say you are an asshole if you say that, too. Also, bite me. Also, your face. And your mom. So there. You could also look at this as another possibly futile, but fucking EARNEST attempt to help my brother, and I would appreciate it if you'd try to look at it that way, leaving my tendency to throw cash at problems OUT OF IT, MISTER. Or LADY. Whatever. Pictures!

Today's haul!

I put all the stuff into the backpack.

First aid kit, $1.69 at Reasor's

Jess printed a list of places that certify welders.

Sonic gift card, $10. McDonald's gift card, $10. Notebook and pen, free because they were around the house.
31-Day Pass, $40.

Travel sized toiletries including a toothbrush, razor & deodorant - $9.69 at Reasor's.

Emergency blanket - $1.50 at a curious little store I found on 11th Street called Gunboat. I got funny looks there and felt like I should explain that I grew up camping my ass off, spent time in the military and considered a career in alligator wrestling before I got hired as a receptionist at my office - except that last part wasn't true, so I just sort of conspicuously dangled my Philmont card-holder as I dug for cash. Nobody looked, nobody cared. I have no cred in the army surplus store. Story of my life.

A journal of sorts I found at a thrift store for $0.79. It has pictures of wolves and Alan loves wolves. He even tries to get people to call him Wolf, but I don't think he has a lot of success with that.

Meal replacement bars, $5.49 at Reasor's. I chose these because they were the highest calorie, highest in protein and looked to be the softest - he's missing some teeth, you know.

Backpack! $3.98 at the thrift store. Loki and Nassim circled several times, checking the bag for explosives. Or something. Then they got bored and wandered off before I could get a decent picture.

So I spent a little over $80 today. I'm reviewing the article and comparing my purchases, and it looks like I left off the tarp. I don't know if he needs that. I wonder if I should print the article and put it in the backpack.

Between stores, I texted Alan to let him know I had his bus pass. Store after store, I kept checking my phone and got nothing back. I got worried, then I got annoyed, then I called and I got voicemail. So I finished running around and I came home and he finally texted back. 

"Sorry phone died. I worked last night and am in b.a. now. I'll be back tomorrow tho meet up then?"

Damn it. Well, this gives me another day to twiddle with the kit. What else needs to go into the magical backpack of homeless awesomeness?

the continuing saga of my brother the grasshopper

Wednesday, April 17

Alan texted to ask if I could buy him a bus pass. Of course the last pass I bought him expired today. I should have kept track. He told me 30 minutes before he had to be in for the night at the shelter, so I had to tell him it wouldn't be today. And text a tiny mini-lecture about giving me advance notice about these things. 

So yeah, he's still living at the homeless shelter. Looking for a job, but says he's "Getting really sick of this 'We'll call you' bullshit. Feeling more and more like I wasted my time. Everyone wants experience but doesn't want to give it."

I have no idea how to help him. Paying for things has gotten him nowhere. The Salvation Army homeless shelter, actually, which seems like nowhere. So I asked if it would help if he had his welding certification - I honestly can't figure out why he didn't bust his ass to get certified immediately after graduating welding school, but there's a long list of things I can't figure out about Alan. 

When he stayed with me, we talked about his need to get certified, but I could never get a straight answer out of him - I offered to pay for certification, but he said it would be $250 through these or those people, or only $40 through the school, but they were different certifications, and then he would go off on a tangent about steam cards? I don't know. I tried a couple of times to talk to him about it, but I never could get to the end of the conversation.

His last text says he can get certified for $50 through the school, but it's $250 elsewhere, and the school won't let him certify because he's behind on payments by $325. 

So I guess the certifications are the same after all. 

He told me before that he was paying $100 a month to the school. So that's 3 months he's behind, which means he wasn't paying the school when he was living with me either, and he never said a word about it to me. I have no idea where he spent his money. Asking him wouldn't do any good.

Honestly, I don't even think he could drink that much - he drinks such ridiculously cheap beer, how could he be drinking his paychecks? Though he did say last time we talked that he was 3 weeks sober. He didn't mention it in this series of texts. 

So of course I'm thinking about paying the school, bringing him up to current, thinking maybe he'll get a job and not need the school's job placement, or at least get certified so he'll be more marketable - because it's probably the last money the school will ever see. 

Comes down to wondering if he's just a mooch, lacking the charm of a con man, laying on the sob story for the suckers, anything to avoid having to work for a living. I don't want to think that. I keep thinking of Billie Holiday's words from "God Bless the Child,"  "Rich relations give crusts of bread and such. You can help yourself, but don't take too much." I always hated that song. I gained a sort of appreciation for it when I read (in her book, the one she allegedly wrote for heroin money?) that it was inspired by an argument she had with her mother. But it's still a shitty thing to think about yourself.

Not to mention I'm far from a rich relation. I'm lucky enough to be able to pay my bills and help out my less fortunate brother.

So I think, am I just being stingy? How much is enough? The fact that he's still living at the shelter tells me that he was really going to live here until I kicked him out. Who would willingly stay at a homeless shelter? Who wouldn't feel a strong drive to get out on their own? So then I think, maybe this is illuminating his disability. Maybe it's not just laziness. And maybe this is exactly where he needs to be so that his disability is visible to someone who may be able to help him, or connect him with some sort of treatment. I don't even know what his disability IS.

I kicked him out March 14, so he's been at the homeless shelter for just over a month now. 

I've given up on asking myself why I feel compelled to help him. And I'm going to start making a regular donation to the Salvation Army. I still have to stop myself from buying socks every time I'm at Target. I'd take myself by the shoulders and shake me, yelling, "IT DOESN'T HELP HIM, IT ONLY MAKES YOU FEEL BETTER FOR A MINUTE," but that only makes me cry and it's a pathetic sight.

There's a lot of thunder and lightning out there. I'm glad I'm not plugged in.

Saturday, April 20

I forgot about the bus pass on Thursday. I went to the grocery store after work and was busily shopping when Alan texted asking 

"Hey you going to be able to bring that by?" 

I responded sorry, forgot, can't do it tomorrow either, maybe check with Jess. He responded right away.

"To late now I'm fuckd"

To which I didn't respond right away. I felt bad for forgetting. I felt bad for a lot of reasons. But I kept wanting to respond with a "Watch your tone, mister" text, and I kept having to put my phone back down, frowning at groceries, slowly pushing my cart down the aisle, trying to remember what else I needed, feeling like a spoiled asshole. Which is ridiculous, right? Don't answer that.

I've been trying to come up with something I can do that will actually help him. All the articles I can find on the internet, even the religiously motivated articles, echo what has been in my head for a while - that giving money to the person doesn't help.

I've always given money to panhandlers. Or food. Whichever I had on me. And I've always felt terrible. Every time, I've thought, where is that warm fuzzy feeling conservatives tell me I'm after when I do this? Because I feel useless and miserable. I could empty my bank account and sell everything I own and become homeless myself and not have made one bit of difference. So what can I do that will really help?

So I'm getting out today, and I'm picking up a bus pass, and I'm taking it to Alan somewhere, wherever he tells me he is. I'm going to try to take him to breakfast, and I think I might pick up a gift card to a fast food place, something I can recharge online so he always has a food option, even if the shelter has stopped serving or he didn't get in line in time. McDonald's seems like the best option, because I think the one at 15th and Peoria is 24 hours - or is that just the drive-thru?

I don't know, it seems weird to be getting him fast food, because I'm generally very against fast food, but my aversion to hunger is stronger than my aversion to crappy food. And I've tried the "stay at my house and there will always be a casserole in the fridge for you" approach. That didn't work. I've actually told him that when he gets a place, I'll be happy to contribute casseroles. I don't care if I have to leave them on the doorstep. I can buy disposable aluminum pans and deliver them with paper plates and plastic utensils. But for now, a fast food gift card seems easier to carry.

And I need to talk to him about saving it for emergencies, but his life is an emergency, so I'm not sure how that will go over. I'm pretty sure he'll spend it immediately. But do I really care?

I don't know what to do, so I'll go do a bunch of things and hope something sticks. The shotgun approach. Deep breath, and we're off.

Boston - maybe.

I'm thinking I should try to qualify for Boston. That's a 3:40 marathon. My best marathon thus far is about 5 hours.

I don't know if it's possible. I don't know if I'm capable of running fast enough. That's kind of why I want to do it.

I don't really have a plan yet. I haven't even really talked about it, except when people have asked me why I'm not training to run a hundred-mile race - which was, admittedly, sort of on the radar before the idea of running faster came along.

I've never taken this running thing terribly seriously, and I don't want that to change TOO much. But part of my reluctance to compete is a sort of superstitious refusal to jeopardize something valuable. Running saved my sanity, if not my life. I don't want to get all dramatic about it, but I honestly don't know what I would be doing right now if I hadn't found running. I'm pretty sure a lot of runners would say the same thing. It's not just something I do to stay fit. It's therapeutic, cathartic, full of life lessons I never seem to learn all that well, so I need to revisit them over and over. And my superstition comes in here - I have this horror of admitting how important running is. The gods may take it away if I talk too loud about how much I love it, right?

Except I'm a pretty hardcore agnostic.

So in the spirit of treating my favorite cup like it's already broken, I need to come up with a plan for getting faster. Taking a 5-hour marathon to a 3:40. Hoo boy.

I see lots of speedwork and crosstraining in my future.

Your so-called face

So I'm finally watching My So-Called Life, thanks to Netflix. I had never even seen one episode before tonight, so this is sort of a time capsule. It's oddly nostalgic.

As of this moment, I have seen the entire pilot episode and most of the second episode. It reminds me of a bunch of stuff, some of which I never really experienced.

The parents bring up as much stuff to me as the kids. Maybe I waited too long to watch this show. When they're lying in bed, talking, and she kisses his hand, I kind of jumped. I do that - I mean, I've done that. That sort of casual hand-kiss when you're not looking at the other person, but you just brush your lips against whatever skin is closest to your face. Like cats. And it comes off as such a trusting thing to do for some reason. 

Hold on I need more wine. Okay.

It just got me thinking, and I had to pause the episode with 5 minutes left to think about this - I don't know if this is crazy because I never really thought about it, but maybe it's crazy. I just have this idea, or I've had this idea for a long time, that there is a limit to every relationship. There are a certain number of mistakes each person can make, a certain number of great moments a couple will have. There is an end to every relationship. I don't say that to sound pessimistic, and I don't say that to discount the truly awful things people can do to each other as, "Oh, well, that was just mistake number thirty-seven, so our relationship was at critical mass," or something stupid like that. It's not like that. It's just that things end, and sometimes things end suddenly, surprisingly, like a piano falling out of the sky. And people write songs about it and wail about it to their best friends, or they call everyone they know and cry about how they didn't know it was their last kiss when they were kissing that last time, and aside from when our hearts are actually broken, we don't think too much about it.

Well, I don't think too much about it. But I am a bastard.

But I think that sometimes I hesitate because there's a little worried guy in my brain trying to count how many kisses are left.

Spooner's bag

Alan texted me I to tell me his bag was stolen and ask if I could bring the rest of his clothes to the shelter. So I guess he's not mad at me. I went to the Animal Aid thrift store on 15th and Harvard to look for a bag to put his clothes in. I love that store. If you hurry, you can adopt the adorable snuggly girl cat that currently reigns supreme over all things thrifty in the shop. I wanted to bring her home, but I found an awesome duffel bag with wheels for $15 instead. The luggage tag said "Spooner" and had an international number neatly written in ink. I replaced it with one of my business cards.

Sucker's huge!

So I put all of his remaining clothes into it, all the clothes he left behind when he stormed out of my house. I had already washed them all, so they were just looking for a bag to go into.

I met him at the shelter. He was dirty. He said thanks and walked away with the awesome bag without saying much else. I got back into the car and drove around thinking, piddling around town, gas station, library, grocery store, sort of chewing things over in my head. I don't know why I can't leave it alone.

I bought the bag on my lunch hour, and it's a good thing I was in a time crunch, because I had this flash of inspiration, all these things I could put into it. A new notebook and some pens and candy and I bet he needs socks - and I ran out of time. Which is good because that thing that I do where I buy him everything I can think of that he might possibly need? I don't really think it's a helpful thing. I think it's a make-myself-feel-better thing. It certainly hasn't seemed to help Alan so far.

Driving away from the homeless shelter, I looked at all the people walking toward it and wanted to cry. I didn't because it wouldn't have done any of us any good.

I hope he's getting enough to eat. What else can I do but worry now?

I bought this computer to write about my brother. I had no idea how hard that would be. I make these plans to take him to a diner and get him talking, get him to agree to let me write down his story, because I think maybe that's the only way I'm going to understand it - if I read it to myself. But we don't talk. We don't connect. No matter how much time we spend together, it's always painfully awkward and frustrating, nothing but failures in communication. 

I know nobody has an ideal family. I just wonder if anybody else has an Alan.

caffeine is the best.

Is it any wonder I can't sleep?

Dry cleaning laundry fix the broken rosary dust dust dust seventeen ponytail holders by my bed? That means seventeen times I've pulled the holder off the end of my braid or off my ponytail either when I woke up in the middle of the night or right before falling asleep. Seventeen times since the last time I cleaned my room. I'm not predictable or anything. Also I never clean my room. Obviously.

I'm sure it has nothing to do with today being the first day back on caffeine. Coffee coffee coffee and some Easter candy to cut the coffee, then more coffee to cut the sugar. 

There are 5 pencils and 11 crochet hooks in my pen cup. I need a bigger bag for all my dry cleaning. Someday I will do all this laundry.

I just finished watching Season 6 of Dexter and I think it was the WORST. SEASON. EVER. But I have to see what happens next. I guess. But I'm mad about it.

People dressed up in bunny costumes is like, my favorite thing ever. I also love little kids in brightly colored outfits holding baskets toddling out looking for eggs. And anything wearing bunny ears. I think Easter is my favorite holiday. Until the next holiday. What's the next holiday?

Today my brother was supposed to go with us to go do chores for our dad, but he cancelled with my sister from a new number, which he did not share with me, and I am leaving that alone. I forget sometimes that in all my failed attempts to understand my brother, while I'm busy trying to work things out and ask the right questions and keep the lines open, he's cogitating and churning and extremely likely to pull an idea out of left field or wherever fucked up ideas come from. So it's entirely possible he's mad at me. Headdesk. Fine. Things that are settled become not settled, and me kicking him out might have him mad all over again, though he said he understood the next day and he's asked me to help him financially with an apartment and I've explained that I can help some, but I'll need to see the place and write the checks directly to the landlord and it's possible that goes against whatever plan he was concocting, I don't know. 

As he was leaving, although I knew better, I broke from my careful kind-but-firm approach just the once. I had this whole regretful thing down pretty well, explaining very slowly that I loved him but I could not let him stay with me anymore, and that when he got to where he was going I would be happy to bring him the rest of his stuff. And he threw stuff and swore a lot and wouldn't look at me or talk to me, but just kept talking out loud to himself about how fucked up everything was, so I just tried to say a lot of things that might sink in later, a lot of sort of generalities and platitudes and shit that seems like it needs to be said in a moment like that - except I wanted to say nothing. Maybe I should have said nothing. I don't know. But as he was stomping down the stairs, he was fuming out loud that you don't never turn your back on family, never, and before I could stop myself, the words, "Alan, what have you ever done for me?" came tumbling out of my mouth and he sneered, "So that's what this is about?" and I said no, but answer the question. And he stared at me for three seconds, thinking, then he sneered again and said, "I was there." Again I could not stop the word, "Where?" from coming out of my mouth, and he stomped off without an answer and I hated myself for taking that swing because it wasn't fair. What could he have ever done for me? I never needed him. Maybe I never needed him because needing him wasn't an option.

Sort of like the way my mom said, after I relinquished my son for adoption, that we could have kept him, raised him. I was like, really? Because I had no idea that was ever an option. So like, whoa.

Or my dad, when my sister and I lived together, and I told him the story of how I surprised her with a washer and dryer and it was so awesome to end our days of laundromats, he said he didn't know we didn't have a washer and dryer and if he'd known, he would have bought them for us. I was like, really? Because you've never given any indication that you were available for that sort of thing and really I prefer to do things on my own steam and of course you had no idea we didn't have a washer and dryer because you've never even seen our house because you refuse to come visit, instead insisting that we drive out to see you. And that's probably wiser anyway because we're sober.

Except I didn't say those things, of course.

And Alan called me the next day to apologize.

And I love having my space back. I mostly don't even feel the tiniest bit bad about anything at all ever. It's fantastic.

oh you'll probably go to heaven, please don't hang your head and cry

I went to my sister's house to help her celebrate the end of Lent tonight - I don't celebrate until Easter morning, but my fast was caffeine and hers was alcohol, so we make sense together. Forgive me if this smells a little like wine.

I can't decide whether you should live or die - oh, you'll probably go to heaven, please don't hang your head and cry - 

I kicked my brother out of my house. I was completely justified and it made total sense and I think he is now more visible to the social services workers he needs to be visible to in order to get access to services he needs, so in a way I think living at a homeless shelter might be better for him than staying at my house, and people might argue, people have argued that I did all I could and I was right, I know I was right, but it doesn't make the situation easy. It rocks back and forth in my chest, trying to find a place to settle, but never quite being still. And I think that's how it is to have a brother like mine. 

Jess and Matt went down relatively early - they've been abstaining for like, 40 days or something, remember? Anyway, Miranda and I stayed up talking and I got to do that thing everybody loves where you get to say you shouldn't be looked to as an example while your companion is clearly looking to you for examples. And you get to say really terrible things about yourself and laugh. What was the Fight Club line of Marla's, the third person bit in the stairwell to the neighbor, about how she was a monster? 

"The girl who lives there used to be a charming, lovely girl, but she's lost faith in herself. She's a monster! She's infectious human waste! Good luck trying to save her!" Something somebody said in the commentary about how hateful people are about themselves when they speak about themselves in the third person. I practiced until I could do it in the first person. It seemed important at the time to be able to say it out loud, to accept responsibility for my various extensive weaknesses and flaws. I did it to protect myself, but I also did it in a really boring and self-absorbed attempt to heal. Other people's emotional struggles are so fucking boring. Sorry. Anyway, I got someplace. A ledge with no rattlesnakes on this cliff we're all climbing up by the tips of our fingers and the tips of our toes. I got this far and I've dealt with the snapping alligators in the pit below. Me and those alligators, we have an agreement. They get to eat me if they ever get another chance. I get to fight by any means necessary. It's the same treatment everybody gets, but I talked to the alligators myself, so I feel like this agreement is worth mentioning. I will climb back out every time, as long as I am able. So we spent a long time talking about personal responsibility, accountability, vulnerability. The things you carry with you years later, the things you don't think you can ever drop. The reasons you move on. We talked big talks. We talked about stuff. The disappointments you encounter when you choose to interact with those disgusting creatures, human beings. We're monsters. Good luck trying to save us. This irritating trend among the friendy-friend types, that whole, "I don't judge anybody because I'm such a good person - I won't even comment on this situation," and the rest of us, up to our ankles in the muck, are like, "Bitch, you don't get to pretend your world isn't soiled by this transgression, that failure, this disaster. Because if you do insist on that lie, you're detaching from the rest of us and you can't expect us to grab your fucking balloon line to keep you from drifting away." But you know what, we will. Because we like to sleep at night. Also we're better than you. Who decided that friendship equalled amnesty anyway? Even acquaintanceship these days. Colleagues and people we've just met demand our confidence, and I'm like dude, I don't even promise that to my family members. Speaking of family members, there's a cousin reunion brewing! I'm excited. There are like 11 of us. I'm totally curious about how fucked up we all are. I wonder if anybody turned out normal! Probably not. I don't know, though - I haven't seen these people except at funerals since I was like a preteen or something.  Jess and I are going to see my dad in the morning. We're hoping to catch him before he gets good and drunk, so we're leaving early. Eddie left for Argentina today. He'll be back in a couple weeks. I plan to eat a lot and be sad while he's gone. But I'll probably go to the gym and run a lot too, so I hope it evens out. Okay it's three in the morning. Good night.

tea and oranges

Every time I log into Blogger something's different. Not so bad, but when there's something itching to get out of me, something that must be coughed onto the page so to speak, and I'm frantically searching for the little pencil icon or whatever the fuck it's going to be I lost my secret decoder ring Jesus FUCK - oh, there it is. Now, what was I so hot in the biscuit to get down?

God damn it. That's how it works. Or I guess I should say, that's how it doesn't work.

But I had an idea in my head, where ideas are most comfortable like Genie in her bottle, I had an idea in my head that I had a list of things I have learned and I should type it up all neat-like, with bullet points. You know how I like bullet points.

I'm sick again and I only ever seem to write when I'm sick so it must seem like I'm sick all the time but I think the last time I was sick was in July. Wasn't it? I had pneumonia. I think. Who has time to see a doctor? You can get a Z-pack at an urgent care. Please note that this is not how it actually went down, except that it is. The only thing that has changed really is my perspective. Time, or cold medicine, makes it dip and wobble. I'm peeking over the edge of the counter at the rest of my life and when did this counter get so tall and when did I get so short?

Some people only seem to write when they're on drugs. I'm only ever on drugs when I'm sick, and I'm only ever sitting here writing when I'm sick, so I guess I'm one of those people. Glorifying drug use. Romanticizing it. This Mucinex is hot. The rattle in my chest when I cough, that's sexy. I've been living on soup and juice for days and today I whisper-begged Eddie to go get me a cheeseburger. And some cheesy tater tots with jalapenos. All steamy and salt with crispy brown bits and greasy paper. We moved things around on the coffee table, all the things he brought to try to make me feel better, the Chloraseptic spray and the mentholated chest rub and ibuprofen, soup and tea and oranges. I tore up that cheeseburger. It was heavenly. He also brought me a cherry vanilla Dr. Pepper, which was my first experience of such a thing and that was delicious, too. Even though I have to be careful drinking cold things because my throat's all swole up and it's hard to make it work if the beverage is cold. So lots of hot tea for me.

I have discovered that a slice of orange in hot tea is really delicious. How have I lived this long without knowing that.

I will be glad when these lung and throat tissues heal enough to expel the mucus that is currently hanging around choking me and rattling. For now, the snot flutters and I cough reflexively, then flinch from how much it hurts and what a giant baby I am, and the snot stays put. Rattly.

Rattly's not a word.

I've also discovered Julie Klausner. She's amazing and funny and I want to be just like her when I grow up. I bought her audio book but I have not yet been able to listen to it. I love her podcast. You should listen to How Was Your Week. Then we should talk about it. Because I love her.

Speaking of obsessions, Cat Marnell finally came out with the piece I was waiting for in Vice. I was glad to read it. I hope she gets better. Isn't that kind of condescending of me, though? Oh, this stranger on the internet who writes shit I get a vicarious thrill out of is actually suffering, poor dear. Let's stop tapping on the glass for a minute and let her get her head together. Asshole. Me, not her. Even though I never tap on the glass.

Holy cold medicine batman.

I have a hard time letting it go when I hear someone mispronounce a word. Because I am a CUNT.

I am all signed up to run the Little Rock Marathon, which means I will miss Post Oak this year, which would have been a dilemma for me had I realized the dates were conflicting when I registered for Little Rock, but I guess that was decided for me by my own failure to check a fucking calendar.

You know what else I hate? When people don't punctuate. Don't give me a long string of words filled with ups and downs and questions and pauses and not give me any fucking road signs to tell me what your tone is doing. You're an asshole if you do that. Or you never graduated elementary school and you're trying to make sure everyone everywhere feels bad for your lack of education. Hey, I'm not judging. I do it all the time.

So my throat hurts. A lot. It didn't come on fast enough, and it doesn't hurt quite enough, to be strep as I've known strep. No accompanying fever and excruciating headache. Just a bad sore throat. I spent the day in a sweater with a scarf around my neck, dozing on the futon with old movies playing but not really watching them. I watched Same Time, Next Year with Alan Alda and Ellen Burstyn, the sweetest movie about adultery I've probably ever seen, even though Ellen Burstyn seems like she has too many teeth. I always think of sharks when I see her. Anyway, I wasn't crazy about the movie, but I could see how it would be a neat play. I think I'd prefer to see it live.

After Same Time, Next Year, I put in Monsoon Wedding, but I slept through parts of that - most of that. It looks like something I will like if I actually watch it. I woke up to see a lot of dancing and I liked that.

After that I put in The Wild One, and I kind of followed that plot. Marlon Brando, hey. Motorcycles and punchouts.

Gosh my throat hurts. I'm such a baby. Like, this is a cold. Can you imagine the whining if I had something real? Gonorrhea from sucking strange dicks on the wharf? I bet that hurts. Do we have a wharf around here? We have truck stops. I should go find some lot lizards and ask them what a sore throat feels like.

After The Wild One, I put in Flying Down to Rio, which I barely noticed at all except when Fred Astaire danced. Dolores Del Rio is in this one, and I don't think I've seen her before. Then again, I didn't really see her today.

Eddie and I watched Crazy, Stupid, Love last night. I thought it was adorable. Do I say adorable a lot? I think a lot of things are adorable. I adore a lot of things and people. Maybe I should think of a new word.

I was supposed to go see an apartment today, but somehow dude and I got our wires crossed. He was supposed to call me, but he thought I was supposed to call him, so by the time I finally asked Eddie to call him for me because I've lost my voice (how hilarious is that, btw), he had left. I think the guy's a flake and I probably don't want the apartment, but I'm very curious about apartments. I hate to turn down a peek into one. Houses, too. Living spaces. They're all so different. I want to see the stairs and the bathroom and the driveway and where I'd put a lamp. How the kitchen is laid out. What color the carpet is and is there hardwood underneath here or plans to put in hardwoods? I like wood floors.

I have the best hot water here. I don't think I'm ever going to have hot water this good anywhere else. I'm not sure it exists outside of this apartment building. It's perfect. Scalding and endless. I don't know how they do it, but gosh I'm glad they do.

Yeah, I don't have a voice today. I woke up without it. I whispered to Eddie, but even that was painful. It's easier to not talk at all. Chloraseptic doesn't help much. Mostly it numbs my tongue and fucks with my sense of taste. Tastes like salty cherries and booze. But bad. Because that kind of sounds good, and this is not.

Little Rock is just less than 2 months away and I have to get better or I'm going to have a really shitty run. So I'm grouchy and impatient because EVERYONE ELSE got to run today and I didn't. Princess Cupcake is not pleased.

It's 10:30? How did it get to be 10:30? I guzzled down some nighttime cold medicine this afternoon, I think that's what did it. It was sort of sunsetty, and I drank some licorice-flavored off-brand nighttime cold medicine, and then I woke up, and I don't know what time it was, and I shuffled to the bathtub and took a bath and slathered on mentholated chest rub and braided my hair and put on some clean yoga pants and a soft t-shirt, then I came back here. I ran the dishwasher somewhere in there too. I know because I just heard it stop. So I must have. Run the dishwasher.

Probably I should drink some more stuff and go to sleep again.

I write when I'm sick. Or drunk. Altered. I don't write unless something's wacky. I don't even know how to work this computer. Isn't that funny? I treat it like a glorified fucking word processor and I use it to check Facebook and Postsecret and google recipes and write a blog. Poor MacBook. Probably wanted bigger and better things than this. Probably capable of important things. Will never see those things. Stuck with me. Anthropomorphizing old me. In my place down near the river, with my tea and oranges that come all the way from California. Not China.

You know, she's half crazy. Is that why you want to be here?

You know it's bad when I'm too sick to play video games. Not even Plants vs. Zombies. My OCD-friendly game of orderly rows, hey I should look for a Tetris game.

This is more stream of consciousness brainstormy than I really like. One of these days I will be concise. Not today. I'm either a windbag or silent. I say too much or nothing at all. Maybe this is also kind of a reaction to not being able to talk all day.

Oh good, my downstairs neighbors are home. Slamming doors and slamming things around, it must be almost time for band practice. It's almost 11 PM, after all. Doors slam hard enough that the windows rattle in my apartment, you feel the boom through the floor. I can't imagine how anybody can be that loud all the time. But at least they usually go outside to smoke. Amy Winehouse smoked inside, and the smell seeped into my apartment and made me crazy. But Amy Winehouse went away and the Adorable Dilettantes moved in, and they never make it through a whole song, which might be why they're such terrible musicians, but they keep trying, with song after song after song, ADD flag flying, nothing quiet, everything must be amplified, singing off key into a hot mic and I am upstairs thinking, I divorced a musician.

I'm not really OCD. I just like order. I can only put up with chaos for so long before it starts to make me crazy. Foaming at the mouth pacing barking orders screeching like a harpy unfolding wings that smell of rotten meat - that doesn't actually hold water, because harpies are creatures of chaos, but I prefer to think of myself as winged screeching creature and phoenixes are so fucking boring, always straight arrows, always focused. What do you do after you rise from the ashes, you stupid one-trick pony?

So the harpy is my best bet.