Okay, twice.
The first time I spoke to a real live human being that I could look at today was about seven thirty p.m. EST.
Nothing back from my erstwhile damp impromptu interview. Looks like, again, all signs pointing to 'yes' means 'no'.
You remember those warner brothers cartoons? The one with the big nay-saying bulldog and his little yippy buddy? I think the big guys name was Spike? As far as I can remember the little one often tried to get the big one to beat up Sylvester cause he thought 'Spike' was so tough and so cool.
Chester.
Little dog's name is Chester I recall.
I think the most frustrating part of being me is that I have both of those guys, the hopeful optimistic retard, the staunch brooding buzzkill, in the same head. My little dog is constantly reminding the big dog of these grandiose adventures, convincing the big dog they are easily surmountable if impossible at first glance. Big dog goes after the prize, gets the snot kicked out of it by unforeseen circumstances. Little dog bounces around, ready for the next adventure, convinced the big dog can handle more.
I spent all of yesterday accidentally over medicating on cough medicine. I did this because I am retarded and I don't know what numbers mean. I was curious why I felt so strange throughout the day.
'Self,' I said. 'Self, why do you feel so weird after just a dose of 'tussin? Why, Self?' Then Self looked at the bottle and wondered why it looked so empty if I had only had three doses. Lifting a groggy arm over to the resting bottle, Self learned a little something about numbers.
What she learned: 4 and 2 don't really look anything alike, written or numerically, certainly not volumetrically.. don't ask me how I got them confused. I slept pretty well, felt a little hungover this morning, couldn't use my hands very well. Completely sucked during Advanced Degree. Had all the control and enthusiasm of a dead fish. UGH.
I still have a cough.
Hit 500 this evening. My hands tingle and are the color of an Oompa Loompa. Hoot.
When I want to receive e-mail from someone, while loading the page to my mailbox, my brain sings a little song using the name of the person I hope to hear from. The song sounds a lot like something someone could do the conga to, and works best if the person's name only has 2 syllables.
Shelley told me that the mirror I have is one of the ones that makes you look fatter than you are. In the really real world I must be approaching AIDS patient status.
Like many people, I used to want to be Luke Skywalker, true ages 9-?. Growing up, Blue Hill was the farthest things from the bright center of the universe, and during school I'd be doodling dragons and knights, daydreaming into the clouds of adventure, intrigue, mystery. I would venture now, that actually being Luke Skywalker probably wasn't a whole heck of a lot of fun. I would imagine there was quite a lot of down time, when he wasn't doing battle with himself in dark caves, or running around with Yoda tied to his back like some freakish three year old.
I feel like I have succeeded in designing a life full of challenge, mystery, and adventure. I'm lately in a position to 'defend my universe' from certain dark ideas, dark paths, bleak take overs. It's, surprisingly, not that hard. I say this now.. in a week I'll be back to doom and gloom, woe-is-me, what-am-I-doing-with-myself-that-is-making-even-the-most-benign-tasks-so-difficult. Kidding.. I hope I wont be there.. though history tells me I might..
I've probably also succeeded in securing a life of relative solitude. I pursue an art that tends to alienate. I have moved around enough to shake off anyone I could, potentially, be seeing on a daily basis.
Soldier Medic visits. He reminds me of all the good in the world.
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