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Thursday, May. 23, 2002 / 6:25 p.m. ~Things, and Stuff Too~ If I push out my stomach my zipper falls down. Hey, that reminds me of a Roches song - anyone know the Roches? - how does it go??? "When she took off her dress the sky fell down"?? Oh, if I were home I'd put it on, crank up the ol' Victrola. You're right, I don't have a Victrola, I have a Technics turntable. All the same. I'm bloated. All I have to do is take one sip of water and my abdomen swells beyond all natural and normal proportion. Whee. Isn't this fun. Notice the lack of questioning punctuation. I had to re-button the pants, so the zipper won't fall down. Isn't this good reading so far? I'm just not in the mood to detail my life. I'm going out with Jon tonight, okay, not "going out", but meeting him, out. No food involved. Not dinner. Art, an opening exhibit. Oh, wait, an exhibit opening. And pool. As in billiards. Right now I don't want to go. Right now my pants are too tight and I want to lie down, preferably outside under a tree. The weather is beyond spectacular, except for the chunky brown (I got that, "chunky brown" from a columnist in the free weekly - good, huh?) layer of smog on the horizon. Fucking phone keeps ringing. Fucking phone. 2:42 p.m., cubicle time. Dee Lite on the Walkman. "I just wanna hear a good beeeeaaatttt, yeeaaahhhhhh". This morning Kukla told the gang that "we had a blast" last night. And I would have to question that. Is sitting at the bar in a Sports Bar, eating bar food, watching a Stanley Cup playoff game on a TV above the bar, talking, eating, drinking Margaritas really a "blast"? I mean, sure, we had a better time than we've had in the past, but Kukla gets up really early every day so we couldn't even stay for the whole game, and she gets really quiet when she's tired, and, well, it got kind of smoky, so much so that today I've been coughing, a lot. I also spent $20. And I'm not used to blowing my money. I could've stayed home and watched that game on my TV, a bigger TV than the one over the bar. Yes, the game was on the HUGE screen TV too, but it's one of those rear-projection jobbies, and face it, they suck. Alright, the chef salad was like the hugest chef salad in the history of chef salads, so it was good, and huge, and it took me about 2 hours to eat it, including talking time. I, unlike some, do not talk with food in my mouth. And the Margaritas were good, strong and good, and I had two because one was simply not enough� I want to take a pin and pop my belly like a balloon. (Really, I seldom refer to my stomach as my belly, but technically a stomach is an organ inside the body, the "belly" area is really the abdomen, but that sounds too formal.) I told Lulu I feel like crap and she asked if I'd taken my "euthanasia". I laughed, and laughed. I'm almost laughing again. She meant "echinacea", but that won't exactly help with PMS bloating. Or "gacid indigestion". Really, I'm stalling, can you tell? There's a lot going on, but the process of putting it into words, at this point in time, is daunting, to say the least. The least. Overwhelming, impossible, to say the most. Somewhere in between might be that I don't have the energy, nor the stomach. Because I re-buttoned my pants and I am in pain now. I think there was originally a point to me opening up a blank page in Word and beginning to write, and that was the fact that I am going to meet Jon in a land far, far away this evening, and I don't know when I'll get home, and I may not feel like writing then, and here I am now, so maybe I'll just write now, but there must still be Tequila in my bloodstream because this is hard, this writing stuff. In other news, briefly, did I already mention that Mark called me at work yesterday? What about today? Did I say that? No, how could I? Isn't it fun to answer your own questions? Whee! Anyway, Mark cracks me up! He is a Comedy Genius!!! Really, he makes this cat sound, this sort of purr-y, meow-y kind of thing and it's fucking hilarious! Look, forget this entry, just pretend it never happened. I'll keep living and gathering things to write about and when it's all in some cohesive and coherent form I'll be back. (Listerine just tried to push Zantac on me. All I wanted was some Rolaids. Or Tums, or something. I asked if I can drink alcohol with it and we all decided that would not be good. So, I'm all unbuttoned again. Again, whee!) Alright, fine, since I wrote that last "whee!" almost two hours have passed. You never would've known if I hadn't told you. You, my dearest Diary. Here's the thing. Yesterday I got email from Jon, Skipper, Mark and James. Unh huh. Blew me away too. Skipper forwarded the invite to the next party, and wished me well, hopes I'm doing well that is. Jon wrote to tell me how he won't call me from his cube, I wrote back and said "I give up", he wrote back and said "You're giving up? I don't understand", and then he wrote back saying he'd call me anyway, at work, from work, but I didn't see that email until later, after he'd called me, at work, from work. You feel me? Ebonics. Gotta love 'em. It. Whatever. So Mark calls (Mark reads this, but Mark, you know I'm really honest, right? I plan to omit little, if any.) me at work first, and like I said, he is a Comedy Genius. We laughed, we cried, it was beautiful. I embellish. He makes me laugh, and I think once or twice I made him laugh too. We're going to hear Jazz on Saturday. I hope we have fun. I think we will. So Jon calls (Jon does not read this, not that I know of, but Jon, you know I'm really honest, right? I plan to omit nothing.) me at work, and we make plans for this art gallery exhibit opening thing, and get used to talking live, on the phone, without him pissing me off by probing. All was well. Email from James said my perceptions on that fateful Saturday were not marred, that it was indeed worth a try, and what did I have in mind, anyway? Anyway? "Just what?", he asked. I rolled my eyes as I read it. Oh grrrreat. I went through so many different moods yesterday it's truly an amazing thing. Perhaps I have multiple personality disorder on top of the obsessive compulsive anal retentive manic depressive sociopathic disorders I already have. (Disclaimer: I do not make light of mental illness, I simply make fun of myself.) In my inebriated, post-two Margaritas state last night, I wrote back to James. I didn't say that what I had in mind was a night of wild and very passionate sex in his bed or on some piece of very expensive and freshly sanded furniture he's made with his own hands, no, I said, hey, whoa, babay! No, what the hell did I say? Oh my god, I should re-read it!!!! So much to say. So much is happening. Things. I've fallen behind. I've been lax in the documenting process. And I haven't even read any diaries since Tuesday! Crrrazy. Hopefully I can upload this when I get home tonight, before I head out to meet Jon. Because this is really important, this entry, I wouldn't want it to wait. Tee hee. I just remembered something, some Health News Headlines on Yahoo! - one was about a new study which reveals that depressed people cry more than other people. Who knew? Damn, can't remember the other, but these were serious. And I had to laugh. Listerine has switched cubes. Details to come. Stay tuned for further updates. Cost of the War in Iraq
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