Sunday, March 07, 2004

The weekend started out strong. Friday morning I was offered a job at Petland, the only place I applied to that I actually wanted to work. And I met my future boss, a businessman with honest-to-goodness integrity. Absolute high point of the day was when he said "Customers aren't always right." I knew right then and there that I wanted to work for that man.

I came home and celebrated to that for a while before celebrating to the idea that I was going to see Casey on Saturday. What a rockin' weekend I'm gonna have, I thought to my naive self, before having to rejoin the work force on Monday. After some unremarkable daytime activities, I talk to Casey that night and he annoys the shit out of me, as he's been doing for weeks now, . This is because after not having seen him in life for months, I have been wearing thin on the understanding of what makes him a wonderful person. To my mind, it's nearly impossible to maintain a real-life friendship on the internet alone. But, hell, that doesn't matter anymore. I'm seeing him tomorrow, right?

Saturday morning I wake up. Not to the sounds of my birds, or Zack's snoring. As lava is to magma, vomit is to what I woke up to. I am about to become Mount Freaking St. Helen's, but I lay there in bed thinking "You can't puke, you can't fucking puke, you're seeing Casey tonight, you cannot be sick." My last chance to see him before, like, May. Motherfucking May.

Beyond that, it's definitely one of the top-ten all-time most uncomfortable sicknesses of my life. I'm nauseous, hungry, going through hot and cold flashes, and very achy, but unable to keep any kind of medication down.

So. Yeah. That was fucking Saturday.

Sunday, much the same, except replace most of the vomiting with pain from a muscle I sprained dry-heaving yesterday, and make Zack sick, too. I go to my computer a few times, and it seems lots of people are getting whiny about *their* weekends in their away messages, and as I sit here, constantly on the verge of blowing chunks all over my laptop, probably about to lose my best friend to the unavoidable impatience I have on him which can no longer be blamed, logically, on either one of us, unsure of whether or not I'm going to have to call out of my first day of work for the first job I've ever wanted, and next to an aching, sickly husband, I realize that I want one thing, and one thing only: To kill every who thinks they've got a motherfucking thing on my misery*.

"They will detail their pain
In some standard refrain.
They will recite their sadness
Like it's some kind of contest.
Well, if it is, I think I am winning it,
All beaming with confidence
as I make my final lap.
The gold medal gleams
so hang it around my neck
cause I am deserving it:
the champion of idiots. "
~An all-too relevant quote from the Bright Eyes (as all Bright Eyes quotes are all-too relevant), "Going For the Gold"

I'm trying to pass on this band, as of late, the way Christina L. was so magnanimous in passing it on to me. It's either that Bright Eyes fans are so genuinely devoted that they want to spread their love to deserving people, or that we're so scarred and bitter on the inside that we want to give to others the kind of raw pain that can only come with an understand of Conor's lyrics onto the whole world, eventually causing one willing demise of the human race-- The world won't end because of nuclear war, not because of race riots or some geological disaster, no, we'll simply all experience the same kind of power and superb misery that I feel when I listen to "No Lies, Just Love", and every last one of us will lay down to die, simultaneously (despite it's hopeful message at the end). I suppose if I had to rally behind one cause, at this point in my life, it would be that we stop looking down so on suicide. It's the safest alternative, after all.

If you'll pardon me, it's been a bad weekend.

Also, I watched a "CNN Presents" special tonight on Howard Dean's own "go for the gold". It's funny, I meant to educate myself, at one point, genuinely interested in the turn that the presidential race might take this time around. But, as ever, I was always too busy with something else-- watching "Family Guy" or writing blog entries about Nike ads with 50-year-old-ass-- and tonight, I sat and watched this whole stretch of very recent history, thinking of how I just missed it, as I seem doomed to just miss everything, by my own sickly volition. I sat and watched and thought, as people always do when they didn't act on something they meant to act on, that I could have been the one to make the difference. Anyways, my inability to write, as disoriented and dehydrated as I am, is skewing the one point I had any intention of making when I came here to post-- I know there are a few die-hard Kerry supporters out there, and if you read this, I'd very much like at least on one of you to convince me that Dean losing isn't a total loss. I can only take so much heartbreak in one weekend.

On with it.

*Except for Jeremey. Because, fuck, man. Fuck.