Tuesday, April 27, 2004
Sunday, April 25, 2004
Dude.
I am the NUMBER ONE search result for "Ghetto Bitches" via Google AND aol.com
I feel like I have finally made it.
I've bought webspace, and am currently trying to make sense of Moveable Type, the blogging program designed by FUCKING SADISTS.
Eventually, this site will die. Because I broke it. And just because. More later.
I am the NUMBER ONE search result for "Ghetto Bitches" via Google AND aol.com
I feel like I have finally made it.
I've bought webspace, and am currently trying to make sense of Moveable Type, the blogging program designed by FUCKING SADISTS.
Eventually, this site will die. Because I broke it. And just because. More later.
Friday, April 23, 2004
So, Tony called me today from the hospital.
He'd tried to pick up a box at work, and experienced this excruciating pain in his knee. He tried to bend it and he couldn't. He called me at work [where I wasn't yet - HAD I been, I would have told him to go to our family doctor, go to the medcheck, go to my MOTHER, but for chrissakes don't go to the hospital.].
The hospital was remodeling. I went to see him on my lunch break, and it took me nearly forty minutes to find him. When the receptionist told me, 'Go to the nurses' station and they will show you where he is', what she REALLY meant was, 'Go to the nurses' station and some crabby woman in pink scrubs with bad hair will sit in front of you, no speaking, no eye contact and reorganize her fucking purse for fifteen goddamned minutes. I found him, eventually, after asking about six different people to help me and being taken in about six different directions, sitting behind a thin, flowered curtain, bare-assed in the hospital gown and looking very, very bored.
The whole way I had been planning the next few months. Tony would have knee surgery and not be able to walk for the next six weeks, at least. I would get a second job because we cannot afford this apartment on my income alone. Maybe Tony could work from home...Stick bobbypins onto cards, or whatever Bjork did in Dancer in the Dark. Maybe we would not be evicted, starving in the streets. Maybe I would not be arrested for not making my monthly tax payment on time.
So. Tony has.
Arthritis.
We bought Aleve and Insoles.
And...that's it. Arthritis.
I'm going to go lie down now.
He'd tried to pick up a box at work, and experienced this excruciating pain in his knee. He tried to bend it and he couldn't. He called me at work [where I wasn't yet - HAD I been, I would have told him to go to our family doctor, go to the medcheck, go to my MOTHER, but for chrissakes don't go to the hospital.].
The hospital was remodeling. I went to see him on my lunch break, and it took me nearly forty minutes to find him. When the receptionist told me, 'Go to the nurses' station and they will show you where he is', what she REALLY meant was, 'Go to the nurses' station and some crabby woman in pink scrubs with bad hair will sit in front of you, no speaking, no eye contact and reorganize her fucking purse for fifteen goddamned minutes. I found him, eventually, after asking about six different people to help me and being taken in about six different directions, sitting behind a thin, flowered curtain, bare-assed in the hospital gown and looking very, very bored.
The whole way I had been planning the next few months. Tony would have knee surgery and not be able to walk for the next six weeks, at least. I would get a second job because we cannot afford this apartment on my income alone. Maybe Tony could work from home...Stick bobbypins onto cards, or whatever Bjork did in Dancer in the Dark. Maybe we would not be evicted, starving in the streets. Maybe I would not be arrested for not making my monthly tax payment on time.
So. Tony has.
Arthritis.
We bought Aleve and Insoles.
And...that's it. Arthritis.
I'm going to go lie down now.
Sunday, April 18, 2004
Internet down.
Apartment management staff incompetent.
More later.
<3 KQ.
Apartment management staff incompetent.
More later.
<3 KQ.
Friday, April 16, 2004
Stolen from Nicole, because I am totally unoriginal in every sense of the word:
Goals for the rest of my life:
• Write something. Solid, on paper. That I won't give to my friend Bryanna and force her to burn.
• Raise children somewhere in Southern Ontario. Or Newfoundland. I haven't decided.
• Learn how to sing.
• Steal violin back from little brother.
• Learn how to play said violin.
• Be able to leave my house for a social function. of some sort.
• Stop blushing every time I am required to speak to anyone but the Tonies.
• Go to school. Somehow. For something.
• Be able to enjoy parties without drinking heavily and saying mean things about everyone involved.
• Find a decent job in the underbelly of the medical world that DOES NOT involve ghettobitches. [damnit, Abigail, I think you ruined my life.]
• Or, overcome feelings of hostility towards ghettobitches.
Yeah. I think I need some better goals. Keep shooting for the stars, right ?
Goals for the rest of my life:
• Write something. Solid, on paper. That I won't give to my friend Bryanna and force her to burn.
• Raise children somewhere in Southern Ontario. Or Newfoundland. I haven't decided.
• Learn how to sing.
• Steal violin back from little brother.
• Learn how to play said violin.
• Be able to leave my house for a social function. of some sort.
• Stop blushing every time I am required to speak to anyone but the Tonies.
• Go to school. Somehow. For something.
• Be able to enjoy parties without drinking heavily and saying mean things about everyone involved.
• Find a decent job in the underbelly of the medical world that DOES NOT involve ghettobitches. [damnit, Abigail, I think you ruined my life.]
• Or, overcome feelings of hostility towards ghettobitches.
Yeah. I think I need some better goals. Keep shooting for the stars, right ?
Thursday, April 15, 2004
Strange things have been happening.
I have spent countless hours at CompUSA, trying to argue that Windows 98 is a perfectly respectable operating system and pissed because our dinosaur of a computer can't handle it's very own USB port, for some reason. I said something to Tony about shoving my Windows 98 up someone's ass at one point, which is very unlike me. I promise.
I have been practicing making direct eye contact with random strangers, and I always get mad if they don't get embarrassed and look away first.
I have also been thinking about nursing school, but all of the sudden I can't decide if I really want to be a nurse, or if I just see this as an easy way to force people to respect me.
I think Hospice is getting to me a bit. I'm not depressed or angry or even at all sad - I just find myself...completely spacing out for long intervals, seeing meaning in every tiny thing I notice, which is becoming incredibly annoying. Today, on the way home from class, I was sitting at 46th and College, waiting to turn left. I was staring at...something...thinking about...something...When I looked over and realized that the bus stop had collapsed. Just then, it had collapsed. The top was half way down the block, the street was covered with twisted bits of metal and broken glass. People were standing around, staring at this mess as if it had just fallen from the sky (which, in a way, I suppose it did.). An older woman was rushing a small crying boy into the gas station. He was holding his arm. But. It collapsed right in front of me, and I didn't see it happen. I didn't even hear anything. I mean. Surely, it must have made some noise, and I just...missed it. Somehow.
So then my sister popped into my head. My sister with her two young children and her dying husband. My sister whose own father won't speak to her despite the situation she is in. For some reason, I have only sat down and spoken with her once since we've been home from Canada. Every time I get two days off, I say to someone that I'm going to go down and visit them, to see how my brother-in-law is doing. Something in my mind clicked, and everything that has ever happened to me has become fused with the symbolism of the Collapsing Bus Stop. I am afraid that I will just...drift through everything, concentrating on the things that don't really mean anything, and all around me, my family, my friends, everything I love will slowly disappear and I won't even notice.
I'm more than a little pissed off that this bus stop situation has come to mean so much to me in the last half hour, but I suppose we can't choose our epiphanies, can we ?
I have spent countless hours at CompUSA, trying to argue that Windows 98 is a perfectly respectable operating system and pissed because our dinosaur of a computer can't handle it's very own USB port, for some reason. I said something to Tony about shoving my Windows 98 up someone's ass at one point, which is very unlike me. I promise.
I have been practicing making direct eye contact with random strangers, and I always get mad if they don't get embarrassed and look away first.
I have also been thinking about nursing school, but all of the sudden I can't decide if I really want to be a nurse, or if I just see this as an easy way to force people to respect me.
I think Hospice is getting to me a bit. I'm not depressed or angry or even at all sad - I just find myself...completely spacing out for long intervals, seeing meaning in every tiny thing I notice, which is becoming incredibly annoying. Today, on the way home from class, I was sitting at 46th and College, waiting to turn left. I was staring at...something...thinking about...something...When I looked over and realized that the bus stop had collapsed. Just then, it had collapsed. The top was half way down the block, the street was covered with twisted bits of metal and broken glass. People were standing around, staring at this mess as if it had just fallen from the sky (which, in a way, I suppose it did.). An older woman was rushing a small crying boy into the gas station. He was holding his arm. But. It collapsed right in front of me, and I didn't see it happen. I didn't even hear anything. I mean. Surely, it must have made some noise, and I just...missed it. Somehow.
So then my sister popped into my head. My sister with her two young children and her dying husband. My sister whose own father won't speak to her despite the situation she is in. For some reason, I have only sat down and spoken with her once since we've been home from Canada. Every time I get two days off, I say to someone that I'm going to go down and visit them, to see how my brother-in-law is doing. Something in my mind clicked, and everything that has ever happened to me has become fused with the symbolism of the Collapsing Bus Stop. I am afraid that I will just...drift through everything, concentrating on the things that don't really mean anything, and all around me, my family, my friends, everything I love will slowly disappear and I won't even notice.
I'm more than a little pissed off that this bus stop situation has come to mean so much to me in the last half hour, but I suppose we can't choose our epiphanies, can we ?
Thursday, April 08, 2004
Today we had a lecture from the hospice's head bereavement counselor. The three solid hours of overwhelming grief and sadness were punctuated by a man in a a white, fluffy bunnysuit driving his wheelchair back and forth in front of the doorway. Apparently, he delivers the mail.
I don't think anybody else noticed him.
We also had to write our own obituaries. Other people got upset and cried - they didn't want to deal with the reality of their own deaths. When asked why I thought the assignment was annoying, I told her that I just couldn't come up with anything to say besides, 'Kelly is dead. She really, really liked ponies. Surely, the world will now be consumed by a Great Fireball of Despair in her absence.' I didn't really write that last part. I am also not exactly sure what a 'fireball of despair' is. But, whatever. It sounds sufficiently melodramatic.
I am making a literal two gallons of marinara sauce. I have enough groceries to feed everyone their own private lasagne at Tony's Birthday Dinner tonight. I just have to go buy some more pans.
Backtothekitchen.
I don't think anybody else noticed him.
We also had to write our own obituaries. Other people got upset and cried - they didn't want to deal with the reality of their own deaths. When asked why I thought the assignment was annoying, I told her that I just couldn't come up with anything to say besides, 'Kelly is dead. She really, really liked ponies. Surely, the world will now be consumed by a Great Fireball of Despair in her absence.' I didn't really write that last part. I am also not exactly sure what a 'fireball of despair' is. But, whatever. It sounds sufficiently melodramatic.
I am making a literal two gallons of marinara sauce. I have enough groceries to feed everyone their own private lasagne at Tony's Birthday Dinner tonight. I just have to go buy some more pans.
Backtothekitchen.
