3:06 am - February 18, 2005
Your Wish Is My Command, Master.
So, I didn't go out. G-ma had, what we in the biz like to call "an episode."
Words fail me here, kids. I did the "unusual abdominal mass", I did "metastisized", I did the "chemo", I did the "don't bother with hospice".
Bah, what am I whining about. Those are pretty effing scarey. I can handle this too.
Began reintegrating the alcohol into the equation. It's going well. One terribly crazy drunken fiasco, where some friends and I performed covert maneuvers on a nearby apartment complex. (Very strange in the telling, much fun in the doing)
Valentine's Day was a bit of a doozy. What with all the break-ups of blah blah blah I've had on or around that day. It was a toughie to handle. Somehow, I always pictured someone loving me by now. I'm fighting the urge to strike out that ridiculous sentence, just so you know. But. I credit this as a proof of my existance, no matter how maudlin and trite. So bugger off at this point because I feel like thinking.
My dad once told me that someday I wouldn't be able to rely on my pretty face to ease me past the rough spots in life. And I would end up as nothing better that a waitress in a truck stop when I'm forty. At the time, I thought he was nutters because I was an overly skinny pale freak of nature. (and of course, I'd planned on going to Vassar, getting a dual master's in business and art history, and working in NYC in some great art auction house, AKA, Christie's)
As time goes by, I realize that maybe he's right. That very well may be my future.
I'm of unfashionable age. I live in B-town. I've never met anyone who had both the intelligence and humor to read the few pieces I like out of the enormous amounts I've written. I have no degree. In anything. I've taken care of my grandmother for the last nine years. My main pride is that I have a dog who loves me and a lovely collection of shoes.
So yeah, I get it.
When did Emily Dickenson die again? Or, for that matter, Hortense Phibblebottom?
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