Dreams last for so long
13 July 2004 at 8:51 am

There was this guy - this man - on the bus this morning. He had with him a messenger bag and a suitcase, was professionally dressed in a pin-stripe suite, and it was clearly his first bus ride in a very long time. He appeared to be very nervous, looking around at everyone, starting to get up at every bus stop until he realized it wasn’t his yet. I decided he was on his way to the airport and had chosen to forego paying ridiculous parking fees - his wife had just divorced him and taken most of everything, including his dignity, so he needed to skimp when possible, I decided - and had instantly regretted his decision once he sat down across from me. I kept glaring at him - I hated him because he had stolen my white space, the place I could blankly stare at to avoid meeting the eyes of other unfortunate passengers - and I’m sure he thought I was some vampire who vanted to zooock his blahd. Anyway, I felt terrifically sorry for him, a man who looked so used to being in control stuck on the bus with the have-nots, and I hated him all the same, for I am a have-not now lacking a suitable distraction from my peers.

I was very sad yesterday. The memories - they just kind of haunt, lurking until you have your guard down, you think everything’s ok, and then attacking you with images you’ve made up in your head, circumstances you haven’t, emotions you hoped never to feel again, urges you thought you could control until your insurance covered

Family reunion in Minnesota this weekend. Who lives in Minnesota? Who? Not I, and for good reason. My mum’s family lives in Illinois. Why, then, are we carting 30+ people to Minnesota, where the bugs outnumber the humans? Says my mother: “We’ll be staying in a boatel. It’s right on the lake.” Says I: “Boatel. Is that your term or theirs?” Apparently, that is the title of the room - their term. A boatel. Boat-hell. I’ve attempted to make a dentist appointment for tomorrow, to no avail, for my “tooth ache” (which does actually exist), for which I hoped to gain access to hundreds of dollars worth of pain medication. A worthy investment, for if I’m stupefied enough I’ll forget this coming weekend ever happened and will save thousands in therapy. Hurrah!

Microsoft Word thinks ‘boatel’ is actually a word. Nay - it is a form of torture. Boatel. HAH!

I’ve purchased the new David Sedaris book - novel? memoir? essays - in hopes that he will save me from this weekend of persecution. “I’m sorry,” I’ll say. “I am unable to come to attention right now. Please leave a message after the ‘fuck off’ and I’ll get back to you as soon as hell freezes over. Fuck off.”

I’m being dramatic, but isn’t it fun?

My cell phone is dead, thanks to my leaving my cell phone charger in my brother's room in Santa Barbara, and the server was down yesterday, so when I called my mom to commiserate about the aforementioned reunion, she was surprised to hear me in such good humor. Seems she left me a scathing voicemail and sent an equally, if not more-so, scathing email regarding a parking ticket that I have in fact paid, though the state doesn't seem to agree (I have important mail sent to her house in the event I disappear. I don't want to have to worry about my mail clogging somebody else's box -- it'd be like mail purgatory). Since she, as she admitted, blames the problems of the world on Aaron, she wanted to apologize in advance for the correspondence, knowing it would make me feel badly about my life choices. Afterward, I checked my voicemail and deleted her message (and subsequent messages from Esp, whom I completely ditched on Saturday night because I was feeling sorry for myself). Ignorance, my darlings, is bliss.

I awoke with Jewel in my head this morning. Why, after dreaming about circus freaks and other ridiculousness, would this happen? Hmm.

Also, I Love the 90s doesn't hold a candle to I Love the 80s, but Michael Ian Black is still yummy. I've warned Aaron that I would leave him in a second for an hour with that boy. Yum.

one year ago today: nothin.

two years ago today: "fucking as in adjective, chico as in town. as opposed to fucking as in verb, chico as in boy. although that would have been exciting." and "why can't papa have the power of clorox?"

three years ago today: nothin.


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About me
Hi. Morgan, 27, of Santa Barbara, CA. I am a hypocritical admirer of rhetoric (when it is my own) and an observer of literary trends. A secret: I don't take anything very seriously, and that includes myself.