sweet rolls and fast cars

Yesterday was a blur. Most likely due to the fact that I had very little sleep and had gotten high the night before. Everything was in slow motion and all my feelings were swirling close to the surface. It takes sleep for me to smile though this and when I don’t get it, well, watch out. I just might ask some questions or talk about my feelings. And then order dinner and watch a movie with you. And hold hands. It’s terrible.

My favorite line in the French dubbed version of Tommy Boy: “Ah, mon petit animal!”

It still feels like Thanksgiving. Mostly due to out of town visitors. :A:’s friend Z is here and while I hardly know him, his presence is reminiscent of still having the pumpkin pie on the table. Same thing goes for M’s brother. Although, he left yesterday. But when he was here, he was like the turkey. Maybe today, when :A: is driving Z to the airport through the grey and cold, the cornucopia of my Thanksgiving holiday will slowly start to disappear and it can just be December again. No one left to make time to see. No one to take to the mall or the zoo or the art museum. The quiet of their departure.

It snowed a few days ago, and against all odds (do I have to pay Phil Collins royalties to use that phrase?) it has stuck around. Only in patches and only on the side of the street that doesn’t get any sun. But there it is. Patchy. Grayish. And stubborn. A hint of what’s to come. It makes me think of Georgia and how I’m not there. How I wouldn’t have seen snow this year had I left when planned. How I wouldn’t be on the hunt for a warm pair of mittens. But there it is. And here I am. Holding on tightly to the idea that it could be nice somehow and that I could be very glad I stayed. Trying to escape this thin ice feeling that’s been following me around for days now. Much like me walking to the store on an icy morning, I feel unsure where to step. Here’s hoping for a warm day.

:A: is making me a tiny pillow shaped and colored like my gallbladder.

For two days now, my car has been unlocked with the key under the mat. I’d put the address up here if I thought it wouldn’t amount to insurance fraud. I will say this, it’s a VW Jetta. 1997. Black. On a side street in Minneapolis. Near a lake. Good luck!

Things I should add to my list of interests: hatching evil plans, fraud, bank robbery, black lights, Slayer, rubbing my hands together fiendishly, Kiss boots, ass kicking, doing things under the cover of darkness, illegal dumping.

My gallbladder says “hi” by the way.

The house is full. Like big Italian meal full. All of :A:’s things are piled on top of my things. And much of M’s things are yet to be moved in. But when they are moved in, they will be on top of :A:’s things, which are on top of my things, which just might be on top of someone else and their things, too. Perhaps some poor schmuck who answered a roommate ad I forgot that I’d put in. And is now buried under a pile of our things. Hopefully, he was smart enough to create an air bubble for himself. There are just paths leading from room to room. To the cat, it must seem like a corn maze.

But, today, I will clean it. I will organize it. I will make soup. With God as my witness, yeah, yeah, yeah. These intentions are, of course, pending nothing good being on tv.

When M’s brother was in town, we wound up getting treated to some karaoke by accident. (Isn’t that how it always happens?) It was at the Chatterbox. Our neighborhood pub. (AH, that could be a clue for those interested in stealing my car!) The guy who puts it on sings EXACTLY like Johnny Cash. And he pretty much only sings Johnny Cash. Smart move on his part. It was worth sitting through all the off-key, drunken versions of Top 40 favorites to hear him croak out Ring of Fire. M was so inspired by him, he wrote a blog (Excuse me, I had something in my throat.) post imagining his life. Giving him an Aqua-Netted wife, Mabel, and having him spend some time in the service. Gave him hobbies like gun shows and flea markets. A couple estranged kids. And a name, Clem. I told him it was a life he’d kick his ass over. Probably would hit too close to home. Made me wonder what someone would write about me.

Maybe they’d write that I was a fairy princess estranged from her kingdom to follow her true dream of taming wild squirrel into house pets and learning how to make bubblegum. I’d live in a mushroom and drive around in a black platform knee high boot. I would only eat gum drops and never grow old. I’d be president of the Weezer fan club and meet Rivers for lunch once a week at a little vegetarian place just off of 5th. He’d bring me daisies and kiss me on the cheek. I’d be able to fly. I would be TIME woman of the year. I’d inspire a mismatched sock trend that would last for years.