Poor little piggies get no love

I'm rotting in bed under thick wool covers while the sun is outside having a life. I'm not allowed to shower or wash my hair in case the temperature catapults, my mom's cell died so she took mine and ran off for the day, and I'm missing the last days of spirit week. And the inside of my throat resembles a Georgia O'Keeffe painting.

Every time I swallow, it feels like I'm gargling razor blades. The hospital is absolutely booked because everyone in the entire Bay Area who has sneezed in the past two days decided they have the swine flu, and are now desperately trying to get on the phone with one of the nurses to bitch about their symptoms. My temperature's stable, so that rules out the flu and strep throat. Then what the hell is making it impossible for me to swallow my own spit?

There's a lot to think about, I guess, to kill time. But I think the swelling in my neck is seeping into my brain and my eyes are closing and I want to think about nothing at all. At least when I'm sleeping, my throat rests. When will my mind learn to do the same?



Continue reading >>

I know it's been a while. Shut up.

From a scrap of binder paper I found shoved between textbooks, undated, but clearly from junior year:

8:45 AM
"There is no laughter in heaven." - Mark Twain

Laughter is based on sorrow, not happy rainbows. Humor stems from sarcasm, randomness, and tragedy, not joyous peaceful times.

I think I just had a fucking epiphany.

No wonder I'm more comfortable, and I do mean comfortable, having a bit of an attitude or being pissed at the world than just being happy. Happiness is not funny. I always feel awkward when something really good happens because I know it's going to end.

Was I onto something?




Continue reading >>