Translate

Saturday, September 15, 2012

Safe Haven, Empty House Edition: No one is here. My mom is on her way to Colorado, my brother and his wife are having a weekend get-away (this being one word now is a hideous abuse of our glorious language) and here I am. The dog's even at a hotel. I don't think the cat needs me.

So if I can get this other test done, I can finish the Paper From Gehenna by Friday. It's not long. But sometimes, writing gets tedious and difficult, or at least the kind that's not for fun. I feel like Dr. Mark Hall, who's been nailed by animal tranquilizers as he crawls through the central core of Wildfire, stumbling to prevent a nuclear detonation. [How many times have you read that book?--ed.] A lot. Too much. But it's a classic, especially for short fiction.

There are times when your feelings surprise you. I was writing a message yesterday, not emotional in itself, and I couldn't stop the water from flowing out of me. It was terrible. I would have gotten sobby watching Hollywood Squares right then. "I'm just so...upset that circle ALWAYS gets the square! How do you think X feels about that? WAAAAA!" [That's funny.--ed.] Good thing I didn't decide to watch Phantom of the Opera; I'd still be leaking.

I'm going to the Cards game on October 1st. I hope they'll have clinched some form of postseason play by then. I'm going to see a musical tomorrow. I don't know which one. Who cares? It's a musical. Unless it's Rent, I'll be more than happy. I should have done show choir in high school. Then again, I'd have had to sing with That One Girl I Was Totally In Love With. That never goes well. I'd still regret not doing anything about it, but that teacher friend of mine said it was a bad idea. She might have been crazy, but I'll bet she was right. Besides, what do any of us know about our destinies when we're all of 18 years old? Meet my pals, Jack and Squat.

While I'm on the subject, I guess I never got the memo about the different "leagues" you could be in with regard to looks. Every time I open up to some dudes about someone I like, they say, "Whoa, you talked to HER?" Yes. What are we, 12? I have but 3 qualifications at this point: 1. Must love Jesus (child of Holy Mother Church highly preferred), 2. Intelligent, and 3. Doesn't annoy me. I've been told that my actual qualification is "Mind-blowingly hot," but all I can say is that the beautiful girls didn't ask to be beautiful. What are we gonna do, leave them lonely because we're afraid? Screw that jazz; I'm already in a wheelchair; I'd say me and the Lonely Hot Chick could have tons of great talks about being isolated for no good reason. Stew on that.

Anyway, pray for me.

No comments: