(no subject)
woke up accidentally, figured i'd get up and tick some items off my to-do list. first things first. my aunt just found out she has cancer. we're all so shocked. ...right. because who really gets cancer these days? crazy, i know. the thing is: she lives in california. we were penpals when i was 10. i've seen her roughly 5 times in my life, three that i actually vaguely remember.
my cousin has requested that i type out a letter for our aunt that she's going to print out and send via snail mail with other letters from the family. that's a horrible idea and i've known it every since she made this request four days ago. if i'm going to send her a typed letter, why don't i just send her a god damn e-mail? a typed letter is not a letter, unless it's typewritten, then it can pass. a letter is hand written, a letter is personal and intimate. i'm not up to making a "sorry you have cancer" letter intimate with black printer ink. that's just too much work. i'm just going to mail it my damn self and who gives a shit if it's not in a bulk envelope with a bunch of other "sorry you have cancer" letters.
what the hell does one even say in a "sorry you have cancer" letter? "you will be sorely missed" is all i can think of. i can't imagine it's the best forum to discuss voluntary euthanasia. i'm sure she's got the money to put up a good long fight, anyway. comfort, my cousin says, comfort her with stories. unfortunately, i don't have many comforting tales. most of my life experiences have been either so bone chilling or so incomparably unorthodox that it would make any straight and narrow adult's hair stand on end.
which reminds me, i'm looking forward to thanksgiving with my stuffy italian family. god damn if i even know the names of half of these people, and i know their kids less. they're spitting out babies left and right and i'm completely out of the loop. "hello little one," seems like a substantial greeting, right? but what fun are these gatherings without kicking up a little dust? i like to push the envelope a little. i know what they think of me already, so why not take this occasion to be thankful that i have the capacity to instill terror with my tales of living in the ghetto? they already hate detroit and there's no changing their minds, i learned that years ago. might as well run with it.
in the time i posted this entry, i could have written ten "sorry you have cancer" letters. if only i knew what to say.
in other news, when i overeat i'm subconsciously trying to compensate for some sort of unhappiness. i think this time it's my job. at home, life is grand. it is utterly perfect, actually. but there's something else, something that pushes me to find solace in a bowl of cereal when i wake up and i'm not hungry. i can't put my finger on it, i wish i could. i can't seem to gain control despite how much i've been talking myself up. it must be my job. i work in a rather toxic environment with predominantly 16-20 year old females. they're always speaking poorly about someone or other from school or work or just coming up with random criticisms about strangers on the street. their tone of voice, their rising inflections just grind me into the ground day after day. and the music. the 95.5, the kesha, the fact that all of this is happening while i'm under the gun, rushing around, working like a madwoman to meet all of the impending deadlines. and the drive, the drive. it hasn't even begun to snow. /compaint
my cousin has requested that i type out a letter for our aunt that she's going to print out and send via snail mail with other letters from the family. that's a horrible idea and i've known it every since she made this request four days ago. if i'm going to send her a typed letter, why don't i just send her a god damn e-mail? a typed letter is not a letter, unless it's typewritten, then it can pass. a letter is hand written, a letter is personal and intimate. i'm not up to making a "sorry you have cancer" letter intimate with black printer ink. that's just too much work. i'm just going to mail it my damn self and who gives a shit if it's not in a bulk envelope with a bunch of other "sorry you have cancer" letters.
what the hell does one even say in a "sorry you have cancer" letter? "you will be sorely missed" is all i can think of. i can't imagine it's the best forum to discuss voluntary euthanasia. i'm sure she's got the money to put up a good long fight, anyway. comfort, my cousin says, comfort her with stories. unfortunately, i don't have many comforting tales. most of my life experiences have been either so bone chilling or so incomparably unorthodox that it would make any straight and narrow adult's hair stand on end.
which reminds me, i'm looking forward to thanksgiving with my stuffy italian family. god damn if i even know the names of half of these people, and i know their kids less. they're spitting out babies left and right and i'm completely out of the loop. "hello little one," seems like a substantial greeting, right? but what fun are these gatherings without kicking up a little dust? i like to push the envelope a little. i know what they think of me already, so why not take this occasion to be thankful that i have the capacity to instill terror with my tales of living in the ghetto? they already hate detroit and there's no changing their minds, i learned that years ago. might as well run with it.
in the time i posted this entry, i could have written ten "sorry you have cancer" letters. if only i knew what to say.
in other news, when i overeat i'm subconsciously trying to compensate for some sort of unhappiness. i think this time it's my job. at home, life is grand. it is utterly perfect, actually. but there's something else, something that pushes me to find solace in a bowl of cereal when i wake up and i'm not hungry. i can't put my finger on it, i wish i could. i can't seem to gain control despite how much i've been talking myself up. it must be my job. i work in a rather toxic environment with predominantly 16-20 year old females. they're always speaking poorly about someone or other from school or work or just coming up with random criticisms about strangers on the street. their tone of voice, their rising inflections just grind me into the ground day after day. and the music. the 95.5, the kesha, the fact that all of this is happening while i'm under the gun, rushing around, working like a madwoman to meet all of the impending deadlines. and the drive, the drive. it hasn't even begun to snow. /compaint