Thursday, March 28, 2002

Yesterday, I was very, very sick.

I presume it was the same cold I have over a week ago, fuming back up at me like an irritated flame...this is me talking through my ass, I have no idea what I am getting at.

For the better part of the day, after I actually got out of my bed (anticipant of the my seemingly fucking LOST reply from Eugene lang- which, if I don't get today, may lead to a criminologist's investigation of why those thousands of innocent people were massacred......except that doesn't look like the correct way to spell the past-tense of "massacre") I laid on the recliner downstairs, feeling the intolerable chills in my skin and trying to ward off total delirium. When I got up at one, my father, Tony, and Austin were the only ones in my house, and I sat there, decided that I officially do not fucking like the movie "Sweet November" (Charlize Theron's- or however the hell you spell her name- character is fucking annoying and Keanu Reeves voice makes me want to claw my eyes out) which is a vaguely notable distinction becuase when I saw it in the theaters about a year ago, my first instinct was that I didn't really like it, but I decided that I probably would if I ever saw it again, as my expectations would no longer be as high, and then began waiting for my mother- the only time I ever want to be around my mother, that I can think of at any rate, is when I am sick. And I have to be pretty damn sick.

Before I continue, I'd like to take a moment to comment on how entierly fucked-up that second-to-last sentence was. Check it out again.

When I started waiting for my mother I was in such immense discomfort that I wanted someone to come and knock me unconscious. I figured it was past one by then, and since my mother normally arrives home from work sometime between 2 and 2:30, I wouldn't have much longer to wait. At that point I realized that my mother had warned me on tuesday that she was going somewhere after work that day and wouldn't be home until approximately five. I was desperate, and must have been delirious, because I actually harbored the hope that my father, who was upstairs, playing his new guitar would take care of me. I began to cry- sort of. My eyes were watering from the sickness, so my sudden burst of emotion had relatively little to do with it. Nevertheless, when my father finally came downstairs my eyes were tearstreaked, my hair was gnatted and in my face, and my head was the only thing peaking up from behind the blanket- I looked, quite systematically, as pathetic as I could have possibly hoped to. My father's instinctual reaction to the sad sight of his daughter, his offspring, someone to whom he has a biological drive to proetect and care for, sickly and seemingly on her deathbed was: "Where's Austin?"

Mustering all my stength to answer him, I said in a weak voice "In his room." and proceed to cough so violently as to jar most of my internal organs. This, I suppose, would have been well-timed for other daughters hoping to seek the pity and care for their parents. For me, however, it was worthless- my father, saying nothing else, left the house, and left me for dead.

I bathed and felt a little better, then Andrew called. Actually, he called while I was bathing, but I was able to call him back being that he ACTUALLY left a message on my machine- so few people actually do that anymore, and I, for one, am pissed off by it. Possibly because we're the only family in the world without caller ID. We had it for a while, but my mother, quite wrongly, decided it was worthless and did the family a favor of saving us nine bucks a month. Talking to Andrew was refreshingly pleasant, though- I don't know if I should mention recent events in his life regarding his health, but I'd like to point out that he's coming along nicely. Watched a hell of a lot of TV after that. And, surprise surprise- I did NOT do the creative writing portofolio that was due yesterday, very similar to the way I'm NOT doing it now.

Tomorrow. Right.

3 minutes to next class and I must powder my nose- oh, how I cannot wait for the time when I'll be so caught up as to describe the events of the CURRENT day again, instead of constantly bringing you all up to date.

On with it.