So I’ve had this cold. It’s been going on for over a week at this point, which is ridiculous. Listen, if I go through all the trouble to be responsible and get the flu shot before flu season, I shouldn’t be able to get sick for ten days straight with anything. I should get credit for letting someone stick a needle in my arm in the back of a Vons next to the frozen food section. Continue reading
comedy doesn’t age well.
To put it mildly, I’ve been dealing with an overabundance of feelings. Apparently this is all very healthy and normal, and I’m handling it with the closest I can come to grace. “Grace,” for me, is crying until snot falls, flailing around my bed like an angry pre-teen, whining to any friend who will listen until he or she says the one thing they all say, “You will be okay.”
I don’t think I can accurately describe how much cat puke I just picked up.
It’s one in the morning. I’m currently staring at Taylor, watching him drink water, waiting to make sure he’s not about to go into some kind of seizure.
At my last job there were many new parents, the kind who often spent from three in the morning until six in the morning awake with their babies. There was absolutely no sympathy for a girl like me — the one who didn’t get home until midnight because she was rehearsing a comedy show, woke up because of cats puking at five and then wrote a few pages of her novel before we had to be on the set. My life is nothing but easy living, as far as they were concerned.
I’m thinking of those guys tonight because I’m bone tired, but I’m afraid if I fall asleep my cat will die and it will be all my fault because I knew he wasn’t feeling well.
We can’t seem to get his glucose regulated, to the point where the vet is currently “doing some research” to figure out what to do to keep us from having to give Taylor insulin three times a day. I’m not sure how the hell we’d be able to administer insulin shots three times a day unless I am somehow able to convince my animal-adverse co-worker into having an office cat. Continue reading
I didn’t get to see the concert last night. It was sold out. I got home relatively early (we even joked about it when we all went our separate ways, how it was pretty early to be so exhausted), and went to sleep. I have tickets for the opera for today. Robert Wilson’s Madame Butterfly. I’ve been saying I’m the only person who would want to see this, being a fan of both Wilson’s minimalist avant-garde whatever-it-is-he-does, and Madame Butterfly. Stee’s never seen an opera before. He keeps saying he’s going to bring a flask. I’d complain, but I was planning on bringing my notebook and a pen so I could write down pitch ideas. But I really wanted to go because it’s my dad’s birthday today, and I want to listen to Puccini in the dark and be sad for a few hours.
But. Continue reading
When my friend Rebecca and I are out in public, we are sometimes mistaken for sisters. In fact, when Dan, his brother Adam, Rebecca and I are sitting at a restaurant together, we look like an East Side version of the Bobbsey Twins: the boys in their ringer t-shirts, Rebecca and I in blue hoodies with our hair pulled into ponytails.
But the story Dan told me today, this one’s the best. Here it is as I heard it, during mile three of this morning’s ten-mile run with Dan (Yes, I ran anyway, even though the nice nurse suggested (ordered) that I don’t. I didn’t want to call Dan in the middle of the night or early in the morning and puss out on him, particularly because we’d logged all the miles during the week leading up to our long run. I got up early and had a good breakfast, drank lots of water, ate an orange, and did some stretching. What do you know, all that preparation worked! We did all ten miles, and didn’t die, and we’re awesome and this week, unlike last, I didn’t come down with the chills for an hour afterward. Yay, us.)
Anyway. Back to the story.
The very nature of a blog is self-serving, self-aggrandizing, self-important and selfish. I know that I write these thoughts down to entertain you while keeping a diary for myself, as I seem physically incapable of writing unless there’s a prospect of an audience. But some days, I do wonder what it means that I write all of this shit down. Particularly now, when I’m about to tell you about a rash. Continue reading
Whenever I had to change schools as a kid, I’d always get really sick on the first day of school. It was always stomach related, and made me feel like I was going to throw up from sadness. In fact, I’d be so sad I could actually start heaving. It meant I almost always missed the second day of school at the new school. I just couldn’t handle going back to the new school on the second day, being at the unfamiliar place once again, trying to make friends. Continue reading
It’s like a tennis ball got lodged somewhere underneath my ribcage, just above my diaphragm. That’s what it feels like after I eat. The only thing that makes it feel better is jamming my hand under my ribs, pushing in on my stomach. I don’t feel sick, I don’t have anything but the sharp pain that makes me feel like lying down in my chair.
This has been happening for the past two weeks. Continue reading
I wish I could figure out how to cure this staph infection, as I’m really fucking sick of taking 500mg of Keflex every day.