This is kinda of old, but Matt Good posted links to this documentary on his blog. I wish Steven was my gay adopted father.
Part two
Part three
Part four
Part five
Part six
Part seven
Part eight
Part nine
Part ten
Part eleven
Part twelve
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
I broke a rule of mine
I went to Gresham today.
Mainly I wanted to leave the house for the first time in like 6 days.
NOTHING HAS CHANGED.
I mean, of course some buildings are new along with a new crop of people living there, but I could have closed my eyes and gave directions to anywhere there and it would have been spot on. Same shitty businesses, same shitty people from the skateboard church loitering outside of Cafe Delirium, same soccer mom's with paint all over their back windows, same car washes being held on street corners.
I pretty much lost my shit and yelled some really colourful things at a group of 16 year old girls from my former high school, holding car wash signs. Different girls, but NOTHING HAS CHANGED.
I guess I can take comfort in a place like Vancouver or Portland, that no matter how long I'm gone stuff actually does change. Thoughts, beliefs and attitudes being paramount.
And for some God-awful reason Nicholas' is opening a second restaurant...IN GRESHAM.
That's just messed up. I bet half the people there can't even find Lebanon on a map.
Mainly I wanted to leave the house for the first time in like 6 days.
NOTHING HAS CHANGED.
I mean, of course some buildings are new along with a new crop of people living there, but I could have closed my eyes and gave directions to anywhere there and it would have been spot on. Same shitty businesses, same shitty people from the skateboard church loitering outside of Cafe Delirium, same soccer mom's with paint all over their back windows, same car washes being held on street corners.
I pretty much lost my shit and yelled some really colourful things at a group of 16 year old girls from my former high school, holding car wash signs. Different girls, but NOTHING HAS CHANGED.
I guess I can take comfort in a place like Vancouver or Portland, that no matter how long I'm gone stuff actually does change. Thoughts, beliefs and attitudes being paramount.
And for some God-awful reason Nicholas' is opening a second restaurant...IN GRESHAM.
That's just messed up. I bet half the people there can't even find Lebanon on a map.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Stripparaoke is why I love this city
You read right.
Lately I have only come to love Portland because of something called Stripparaoke.
Only in Portland can something like this exist.
Yes, it is exactly what it sounds like. Strippers + Karaoke. Three, sometimes four, lovely ladies rotate and get down on the pole while you act out that rockstar fantasy you've always had, as you get to rock the mic.
Portland has a strong tradition of strip clubs being city landmarks. Mary's Club in Portland on Burnside is the oldest strip clubs in Portland and proudly boasts it. Second to Montreal, Portland has so many strip clubs because of one simple reason. Oregon has some of the loosest freedom of speech laws in America. Basically, it's my God-given right thanks to the Oregon legislature to express myself using just my tits.
But as opposed to frequenting one of the many strip clubs you can choose from in town, there's several specific reasons Stripparaoke at the Devil's Point is one of my favourite events. Mainly, it's hilarious. There's nothing more I hate at a strip club than going and feeling like I'm paying for a crack habit or helping someone relive a seedier part of their childhood. With their sexy Suicide Girlish, alt-rocker chick dancers, I have never left feeling like one of them was just mere minutes away from shouting "sorry Daddy!" at the top of their lungs while I throw my dollar bills down. But their is a sadomasochistic quality to Stripparaoke that makes it so enjoyable. It's also kinda hilarious to see what song you can make a stripper dance to (last week I watched a girl dance to Jeff Buckley's version of "Hallelujah"). It's also hilarious to see the reactions from the crowd and the dancers while some of the worst singers warble on the stage. I've always been into the athletic nature of stripping as well, and the girls at the Devil's Point routinely do some of the best tricks on the pole this side of a monkey in a jungle. The monkey never wore 4 inch patent leather stiletto heels, however.
Stripparoake has almost become a community event of sorts, in the dirty southeast. There are steady cast of regular's and in a way when you go in there, it feels a bit like a rocked out, demented version of Cheers (sing it with me now..."where everybody knooowws your name, and they're always glad you came"). Theme nights add a special twist to the debauchary as well; pirate nights, pink and black party's, pimps and ho's nights, freaks and geeks night.
But most importantly, I come back again and again for the same reason everyone else does. The hot ass.
Stripparoake takes place at the Devil's Point on SE 52nd and Foster 9-close, on Sunday, of course...the Lord's day. Make it rain.
Lately I have only come to love Portland because of something called Stripparaoke.
Only in Portland can something like this exist.
Yes, it is exactly what it sounds like. Strippers + Karaoke. Three, sometimes four, lovely ladies rotate and get down on the pole while you act out that rockstar fantasy you've always had, as you get to rock the mic.
Portland has a strong tradition of strip clubs being city landmarks. Mary's Club in Portland on Burnside is the oldest strip clubs in Portland and proudly boasts it. Second to Montreal, Portland has so many strip clubs because of one simple reason. Oregon has some of the loosest freedom of speech laws in America. Basically, it's my God-given right thanks to the Oregon legislature to express myself using just my tits.
But as opposed to frequenting one of the many strip clubs you can choose from in town, there's several specific reasons Stripparaoke at the Devil's Point is one of my favourite events. Mainly, it's hilarious. There's nothing more I hate at a strip club than going and feeling like I'm paying for a crack habit or helping someone relive a seedier part of their childhood. With their sexy Suicide Girlish, alt-rocker chick dancers, I have never left feeling like one of them was just mere minutes away from shouting "sorry Daddy!" at the top of their lungs while I throw my dollar bills down. But their is a sadomasochistic quality to Stripparaoke that makes it so enjoyable. It's also kinda hilarious to see what song you can make a stripper dance to (last week I watched a girl dance to Jeff Buckley's version of "Hallelujah"). It's also hilarious to see the reactions from the crowd and the dancers while some of the worst singers warble on the stage. I've always been into the athletic nature of stripping as well, and the girls at the Devil's Point routinely do some of the best tricks on the pole this side of a monkey in a jungle. The monkey never wore 4 inch patent leather stiletto heels, however.
Stripparoake has almost become a community event of sorts, in the dirty southeast. There are steady cast of regular's and in a way when you go in there, it feels a bit like a rocked out, demented version of Cheers (sing it with me now..."where everybody knooowws your name, and they're always glad you came"). Theme nights add a special twist to the debauchary as well; pirate nights, pink and black party's, pimps and ho's nights, freaks and geeks night.
But most importantly, I come back again and again for the same reason everyone else does. The hot ass.
Stripparoake takes place at the Devil's Point on SE 52nd and Foster 9-close, on Sunday, of course...the Lord's day. Make it rain.
Friday, June 26, 2009
It's obvious I haven't written in awhile
This has been a conscious choice.
Writing has always been something symbolic as well as something tangible for me. Me not writing was me making sure I was actually ready to do such things that make up my essence again.
It's been no secret that I was not well not last year. I'm not quite courageous enough to publish all of that crap all over the Internet, but those of you that need to know what went on/is going on know. I am also being cryptic because I know the "story" is not ready to be told yet. That's to say it needs to sit in the marinade a bit longer. It's not ready to be a story yet. When it is and when I know "the ending" you'll be the first to know.
All the vague double talk aside- I have a job. 20ish hours a week, which is what I wanted so I can write, reconnect with Portland people. I really need the money for grad school apps but I also want to move out too. That's just not going to be a reality though until probably the fall (or beyond) or if I can find a decent roommate who I actually don't see myself trying to strangle.
This post was an experiment to see if the words can actually flow again. Glad to see they weren't buried too far in the groud.
Writing has always been something symbolic as well as something tangible for me. Me not writing was me making sure I was actually ready to do such things that make up my essence again.
It's been no secret that I was not well not last year. I'm not quite courageous enough to publish all of that crap all over the Internet, but those of you that need to know what went on/is going on know. I am also being cryptic because I know the "story" is not ready to be told yet. That's to say it needs to sit in the marinade a bit longer. It's not ready to be a story yet. When it is and when I know "the ending" you'll be the first to know.
All the vague double talk aside- I have a job. 20ish hours a week, which is what I wanted so I can write, reconnect with Portland people. I really need the money for grad school apps but I also want to move out too. That's just not going to be a reality though until probably the fall (or beyond) or if I can find a decent roommate who I actually don't see myself trying to strangle.
This post was an experiment to see if the words can actually flow again. Glad to see they weren't buried too far in the groud.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Riding the #8, realizing there's a whole other world outside of my head
I was not intending on writing something that honoured the troops in any way shape or form, but I just remembered that earlier was Memorial Day and my experience today seems to fit, I guess, even though the intention was not to write some hokey troop-loving post.
As I am jobless and in a complete state of flux here in PDX, I have taken up a new hobby of late that I like to call urban hiking. Basically, urban hiking started because almost five years ago I left Portland. Now I'm back and I don't recognize shit. So I spend most of my days (when I leave the house) urban hiking, walking long distances around town exploring, and trying to take in the scenary. I did a bit of this on the Drive back in Vancouver, but obviously there is more walking potential in Portland.
Today I walked from PSU to Powells and then walked to the foot of Pill Hill (actually known as Marquam Hill) where OHSU is located. I managed to get about halfway up the Hill before my back started giving me shit, so I decided to cheat and bus on the #8 the rest of the way up.
On Friday I got a call from my doctor. Turns out he is actually on the ball and called because he was checking files and saw that the referal he gave me won't pan out until July and was surprised I didn't call him to get in sooner. (It's weird getting reaquainted with semi-timely healthcare again.) So he called to get me in with another specialist much sooner. This then resulted in me doing a 30 minute interview on the phone with a nurse with a promise that I'd hear something in the next 7 days.
The #8 was uncharacteristically practically empty when I got on it along Terwilliger, except for three people, 2 of whom were wearing Vietnam Veteran caps and the other was wearing a coat similar to the one I've seen Pat wear for his unit (they look like lettermen jackets). I happened to be sitting in the middle of the bus, towards the back and got to watch and hear their conversations. The two grisseled grey haired guys in front of me were engaged in a loud conversation about PTSD and their symptoms. They loudly and awkwardly rambeled off phrases like "self medication", "flashbacks", and "hypervigillence". The terms themselves weren't hard to hear. Hearing grown men (older than my parents) who seemed to epitomize an older time and way use these terms seemed not only strange, but just flat out uncomfortable. It was the same kind of uncomfortable I feel when you hear a stripper or porno star open their mouths and all you hear is the voice of a six year old girl. These Vets didn't seem to really have the personalities, faculties, whatever the word is to use their words without them seeming like buzz words or sterile. These words were defining them and they weren't their words. I still can't explain why it felt so weird to hear them use them but I wanted to crawl out of my skin.
Then I looked over to the opposite side of the bus and looked at the other Veteran, a woman, clearly only old enough for the most recent Iraq war. I have no idea if she was reacting to the Vietnam Vets conversation as well, or just reacting in general, but she sat with her head leaning against the window, and in the reflection I could see her silently crying. I instantly felt so much better and so terrible for feeling better/lucky at the same time.
They got off at the VA before me and I got off at OHSU, climbed the stairs, and took a picture or two from the tram dock. I hate the tram, but I love this view from up top.
I'm glad I can still enjoy it.
As I am jobless and in a complete state of flux here in PDX, I have taken up a new hobby of late that I like to call urban hiking. Basically, urban hiking started because almost five years ago I left Portland. Now I'm back and I don't recognize shit. So I spend most of my days (when I leave the house) urban hiking, walking long distances around town exploring, and trying to take in the scenary. I did a bit of this on the Drive back in Vancouver, but obviously there is more walking potential in Portland.
Today I walked from PSU to Powells and then walked to the foot of Pill Hill (actually known as Marquam Hill) where OHSU is located. I managed to get about halfway up the Hill before my back started giving me shit, so I decided to cheat and bus on the #8 the rest of the way up.
On Friday I got a call from my doctor. Turns out he is actually on the ball and called because he was checking files and saw that the referal he gave me won't pan out until July and was surprised I didn't call him to get in sooner. (It's weird getting reaquainted with semi-timely healthcare again.) So he called to get me in with another specialist much sooner. This then resulted in me doing a 30 minute interview on the phone with a nurse with a promise that I'd hear something in the next 7 days.
The #8 was uncharacteristically practically empty when I got on it along Terwilliger, except for three people, 2 of whom were wearing Vietnam Veteran caps and the other was wearing a coat similar to the one I've seen Pat wear for his unit (they look like lettermen jackets). I happened to be sitting in the middle of the bus, towards the back and got to watch and hear their conversations. The two grisseled grey haired guys in front of me were engaged in a loud conversation about PTSD and their symptoms. They loudly and awkwardly rambeled off phrases like "self medication", "flashbacks", and "hypervigillence". The terms themselves weren't hard to hear. Hearing grown men (older than my parents) who seemed to epitomize an older time and way use these terms seemed not only strange, but just flat out uncomfortable. It was the same kind of uncomfortable I feel when you hear a stripper or porno star open their mouths and all you hear is the voice of a six year old girl. These Vets didn't seem to really have the personalities, faculties, whatever the word is to use their words without them seeming like buzz words or sterile. These words were defining them and they weren't their words. I still can't explain why it felt so weird to hear them use them but I wanted to crawl out of my skin.
Then I looked over to the opposite side of the bus and looked at the other Veteran, a woman, clearly only old enough for the most recent Iraq war. I have no idea if she was reacting to the Vietnam Vets conversation as well, or just reacting in general, but she sat with her head leaning against the window, and in the reflection I could see her silently crying. I instantly felt so much better and so terrible for feeling better/lucky at the same time.
They got off at the VA before me and I got off at OHSU, climbed the stairs, and took a picture or two from the tram dock. I hate the tram, but I love this view from up top.
I'm glad I can still enjoy it.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
It takes one to know one.
My grandfather is depressed. There's pretty much no denying it at this point.
While in Iowa I not only got to witness this firsthand, but hear the stories from relatives. They had no idea that it was what they were describing, but let's just pull out that old cliche: it takes one to know one.
This isn't the first time this has happened. My grandmother died 4 days after my 3rd birthday, and according to everyone in Oregon who watched my grandfather over the following years, he wasted away. He physically wasted away as he stopped eating and mentally wasted away as he stopped doing anything except working. My grandpa admits to losing 20 pounds during a brief period after my grandmother's death, but beyond that he has never really admitted to how painful losing her really was for him.
The neighbours commented to both my mother and I (after we moved in) that my grandpa seemed more lively, fitter, active, and finally happy again. He seemed like the guy that moved in there in 1976, not the guy that found the walls surrounding him constant reminders of pain and sadness. I remember our next door neighbour specifically saying to me "Emily, you've really saved his life."
That's why watching my grandpa only walk one block a day out to the newspaper stand in the mornings, seeing him nap six hours in the middle of the day in his chair, and have him telling me that he doesn't even like watching TV or eating much anymore was so hard for the past week. What was worse was hearing his family tell me it's the most active and happy they've seen him in a year. I know what that feels like and he is the last person on Earth I would wish this on. I wanted to say something about it, bring it up, but he was born in 1931 and I was born in 1984. He manages to move ahead with the winds of social progress and change relatively well for a guy of his age and background, but I know he would never admit to it, let alone seek any kind of help. The closest we'll ever get to that was when at a dinner party at Brian's family's house he said "moving back to Iowa was the biggest mistake I've ever made in my life." At the time I thought that statement had a lot to do with his sister.
His nephew was trying to get me away from his sister to talk to me, but she managed to find a way to stop that from happening. But when his nephew heard I was applying for MFA programs for the next school year he asked me which ones, and then repeated several times that it would probably be best if I could attend a school "off the west coast, closer to all of us" (meaning grandpa). He flat out even said "I think it would really make your grandpa happy if you got into one of those Minneapolis schools."
This whole situation makes me feel really fucking guilty on two levels:
1) I feel like he actually misses me and I feel like shit that I kinda broke up the family by moving to Canada, and giving him that perfect out to return to Iowa. I feel like shit that the only thing that seems to make him happy right now is trying to make me happy, and in turn it makes him feel like shit.
2) I wasn't able to see this early enough, and even managed to convince myself from May of last year until February of this year that he could move on if he had to. In turn I did a bunch of stupid selfish shit and now feel like hell because I could have put him through mountains more of pain.
I really feel self-centered I mean something to him, thinking that my absence causes feelings of sadness or loss for him. I think to an extent it does but it took me the whole 6 days there to figure out what else he's lost.
The last night I was there he fell asleep in his recliner watching The Colbert Report with me. I had kept him up late the night before watching bullriding and talking about travel until after midnight, and that day his niece, nephew, and their significant others crowded into the livingroom and we visited for hours. He was tired and worn out because compared to his recent schedule of napping and staring at the wall in the pitch black dark, this day was long and strenous.
He woke up at the end of the show, sat up and looked straight at me with a big smile on his face while his hands shook. He then turned to the end table between us and started picking up objects, scattering them around. I asked him what he was doing and he handed me a flyer that had flown off the table in his frenzy and asked me what it was. An ad, junk mail, I told him. I've been used to him finding random pieces of paper he's dropped and unable to read thanks to his poor eyes now. Then he picked up his magnifying glass he uses for reading sometimes and said "and this?" I stopped and wondered was this some kind of game? It reminded me of something you do with a kid that's learning to talk, holding up objects and asking them to recall them. I answered "it's your magnifying glass". He held it to his eye with a big smile on his face and looked at me through it.
Then he grabbed a coaster and held it up towards me. "And this?"
I was stunned and I didn't really try to hide it at first. "What? It's your coaster, Grandpa." He held it closer to my face. "How come you didn't eat all your dinner? Did you get all that you need?" he said holding the coaster out in front of me like a plate.
I tried to collect myself and not crumble while being very assertive. "Grandpa, that's your coaster. I have no idea why you are asking me about dinner. That was five hours ago. That's just your coaster. Do you know what that is?" The smile on his face disapeared and he looked at me very intently, and with worry. There was a brief moment of fear and understanding we exchanged between us with just our eyes.
"You've been napping for awhile now, are you still dreaming? Are you awake now?" I said.
"I know I was sleeping. I was tired."
"Yeah, so am I. Maybe we should both go to bed."
"Yeah, I think that's a good idea."
After walking him to his room and shutting his bedroom door for him, I walked into his sister's room and collapsed and curled up on the floor at the realization that finally came to me.
He's in pain because he's lost himself.
While in Iowa I not only got to witness this firsthand, but hear the stories from relatives. They had no idea that it was what they were describing, but let's just pull out that old cliche: it takes one to know one.
This isn't the first time this has happened. My grandmother died 4 days after my 3rd birthday, and according to everyone in Oregon who watched my grandfather over the following years, he wasted away. He physically wasted away as he stopped eating and mentally wasted away as he stopped doing anything except working. My grandpa admits to losing 20 pounds during a brief period after my grandmother's death, but beyond that he has never really admitted to how painful losing her really was for him.
The neighbours commented to both my mother and I (after we moved in) that my grandpa seemed more lively, fitter, active, and finally happy again. He seemed like the guy that moved in there in 1976, not the guy that found the walls surrounding him constant reminders of pain and sadness. I remember our next door neighbour specifically saying to me "Emily, you've really saved his life."
That's why watching my grandpa only walk one block a day out to the newspaper stand in the mornings, seeing him nap six hours in the middle of the day in his chair, and have him telling me that he doesn't even like watching TV or eating much anymore was so hard for the past week. What was worse was hearing his family tell me it's the most active and happy they've seen him in a year. I know what that feels like and he is the last person on Earth I would wish this on. I wanted to say something about it, bring it up, but he was born in 1931 and I was born in 1984. He manages to move ahead with the winds of social progress and change relatively well for a guy of his age and background, but I know he would never admit to it, let alone seek any kind of help. The closest we'll ever get to that was when at a dinner party at Brian's family's house he said "moving back to Iowa was the biggest mistake I've ever made in my life." At the time I thought that statement had a lot to do with his sister.
His nephew was trying to get me away from his sister to talk to me, but she managed to find a way to stop that from happening. But when his nephew heard I was applying for MFA programs for the next school year he asked me which ones, and then repeated several times that it would probably be best if I could attend a school "off the west coast, closer to all of us" (meaning grandpa). He flat out even said "I think it would really make your grandpa happy if you got into one of those Minneapolis schools."
This whole situation makes me feel really fucking guilty on two levels:
1) I feel like he actually misses me and I feel like shit that I kinda broke up the family by moving to Canada, and giving him that perfect out to return to Iowa. I feel like shit that the only thing that seems to make him happy right now is trying to make me happy, and in turn it makes him feel like shit.
2) I wasn't able to see this early enough, and even managed to convince myself from May of last year until February of this year that he could move on if he had to. In turn I did a bunch of stupid selfish shit and now feel like hell because I could have put him through mountains more of pain.
I really feel self-centered I mean something to him, thinking that my absence causes feelings of sadness or loss for him. I think to an extent it does but it took me the whole 6 days there to figure out what else he's lost.
The last night I was there he fell asleep in his recliner watching The Colbert Report with me. I had kept him up late the night before watching bullriding and talking about travel until after midnight, and that day his niece, nephew, and their significant others crowded into the livingroom and we visited for hours. He was tired and worn out because compared to his recent schedule of napping and staring at the wall in the pitch black dark, this day was long and strenous.
He woke up at the end of the show, sat up and looked straight at me with a big smile on his face while his hands shook. He then turned to the end table between us and started picking up objects, scattering them around. I asked him what he was doing and he handed me a flyer that had flown off the table in his frenzy and asked me what it was. An ad, junk mail, I told him. I've been used to him finding random pieces of paper he's dropped and unable to read thanks to his poor eyes now. Then he picked up his magnifying glass he uses for reading sometimes and said "and this?" I stopped and wondered was this some kind of game? It reminded me of something you do with a kid that's learning to talk, holding up objects and asking them to recall them. I answered "it's your magnifying glass". He held it to his eye with a big smile on his face and looked at me through it.
Then he grabbed a coaster and held it up towards me. "And this?"
I was stunned and I didn't really try to hide it at first. "What? It's your coaster, Grandpa." He held it closer to my face. "How come you didn't eat all your dinner? Did you get all that you need?" he said holding the coaster out in front of me like a plate.
I tried to collect myself and not crumble while being very assertive. "Grandpa, that's your coaster. I have no idea why you are asking me about dinner. That was five hours ago. That's just your coaster. Do you know what that is?" The smile on his face disapeared and he looked at me very intently, and with worry. There was a brief moment of fear and understanding we exchanged between us with just our eyes.
"You've been napping for awhile now, are you still dreaming? Are you awake now?" I said.
"I know I was sleeping. I was tired."
"Yeah, so am I. Maybe we should both go to bed."
"Yeah, I think that's a good idea."
After walking him to his room and shutting his bedroom door for him, I walked into his sister's room and collapsed and curled up on the floor at the realization that finally came to me.
He's in pain because he's lost himself.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Happy Mother's Day...the dog shit on the carpet
Yeah...it was not a good Mother's Day for Mom- let's just leave it at that.
Weird sorta eventful/not eventful in anyway kind of a day.
I went to Whole Foods...oooo- so yuppie of me.
Also got some test results back from OHSU that basically prove that a) I CAN be physically healthy but in turn b) this means I'm mentally not. YAY for life alterning news delivered in bullet point form!
The Dr. had to write me a personal little email through my online health account with the hospital, basically explaining that for once, I am not a physical disaster. My automatic instinct was to reply back just telling him to put IT in my mouth, which I'm pretty sure is not only inappropriate and crass, it might prove his point. It's thoughts like these that I have, that make me realize why people are embarrased by me.
Speaking of embarrasing, now because I have TWO Ativan's left and four flights ahead of me in the next 9 days, I'm about to be THAT person on the plane. I'm about to mix together a cocktail of varying amounts of sleeping pills, airport wine, lack of sleep, an eye mask, a freshly charged iPod, and a Holy Bible (just so I can find the BBJ when it counts). I want to be so screwed up on those flights that not only will I need a wheelchair to get off the plane, I don't even want to be aware of who the Wright Brothers are.
How fucked would that be? My grandpa, who should probably be in a wheelchair, picking up his 24 year old granddaughter who is drooling on herself and being pushed through a midwestern jerk-water town airport in a wheelchair, because she had to self-medicate herself to get to Iowa for 6 fun filled days of...watching cable news and eating shit food from the Hyvee's.
I just found out the coffee shop in town has wireless. To prevent more episodes of rage and panic, I will be trying my best to avoid his television while there. Except for hockey. Hockey is always acceptable.
Weird sorta eventful/not eventful in anyway kind of a day.
I went to Whole Foods...oooo- so yuppie of me.
Also got some test results back from OHSU that basically prove that a) I CAN be physically healthy but in turn b) this means I'm mentally not. YAY for life alterning news delivered in bullet point form!
The Dr. had to write me a personal little email through my online health account with the hospital, basically explaining that for once, I am not a physical disaster. My automatic instinct was to reply back just telling him to put IT in my mouth, which I'm pretty sure is not only inappropriate and crass, it might prove his point. It's thoughts like these that I have, that make me realize why people are embarrased by me.
Speaking of embarrasing, now because I have TWO Ativan's left and four flights ahead of me in the next 9 days, I'm about to be THAT person on the plane. I'm about to mix together a cocktail of varying amounts of sleeping pills, airport wine, lack of sleep, an eye mask, a freshly charged iPod, and a Holy Bible (just so I can find the BBJ when it counts). I want to be so screwed up on those flights that not only will I need a wheelchair to get off the plane, I don't even want to be aware of who the Wright Brothers are.
How fucked would that be? My grandpa, who should probably be in a wheelchair, picking up his 24 year old granddaughter who is drooling on herself and being pushed through a midwestern jerk-water town airport in a wheelchair, because she had to self-medicate herself to get to Iowa for 6 fun filled days of...watching cable news and eating shit food from the Hyvee's.
I just found out the coffee shop in town has wireless. To prevent more episodes of rage and panic, I will be trying my best to avoid his television while there. Except for hockey. Hockey is always acceptable.
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