Horse Meet

I took a writing class in Portland when I first moved back home in 2007. It was a memoir class in a room above a pet grooming place. It smelled like pet shampoo and dust.

There were no men in the class. One woman had self published a book about growing up in Oregon. When she read in class, she seemed to shut down and just list details. It made me want to buy her book and eat the pages.

Another woman was writing a book about her family. I didn't know how it ended, but the sections she would read in class always had this dark undercurrent. I kept waiting to find out her dad molested her and she killed him.

Another woman had a Hitler mustache. She was the funniest lady in class. She wrote about working in a call center.

One woman was my age. She talked about the time Nancy Reagan came to her class and told them to stay off drugs, and how she did drugs later that night.

I wish I could remember this one woman's name. She wrote a lot of stories about her childhood. She often cried in the middle. She had super long hair and she was probably at least 50 years old. I assume she was molested, but she never wrote about it.

This one time she wrote about how she asked her father for a pony, and he sort of tormented her by pretending to get her one. She waited every day in the lane for this pony, and it never came. At the end of it she started crying.

Her tears brought out the worst in me. For some reason, I was really enraged. I think because when someone cries, it pulls you in and makes you feel their pain, and her pain was over a pony she didn't get. I was thinking, yeah, I wanted a lot of things I didn't get, why does this bitch get to corner the market on sadness because she didn't get a pony.

I sort of started obsessing about her pony. I daydreamed about getting her a pony. I would get her a pony and leave it out in the street. I'd go to class and I'd tell her I had a surprise for her. I'd tell her to look out the window, but first I'd position two people on the street below. One person would be in charge of letting the pony go so it could run down the street. The other person, would be sitting in a semi truck, waiting for the signal. Right as she looked out the window, I'd tell the guy to let the pony go. Then, just as he came into view, I'd tell the semi truck driver to drive as fast as he could toward the horse.

I must have thought about that moment twenty times during that class.

I have not had a sandwich yet today.

Bleh

This sandwich sucks. Humus on one side, olive tapenade on the other, turkey, tomato and nothing else. Just horrible. Ugh.

I am so fucking tired. I'm on day six of not drinking. I took a Clonopin last night (spelling) and then I dreamed I rented a warehouse for my head.

Don't Do Drugs

It's been so long since I spoke of sandwiches. I am ready to face them again.

I cried in the car right after I went to Joann Fabrics to look for something to do with my hands. I saw this lady with her kids and she seemed unhappy too.

It's been three days since I had any booze. 

On Sunday, the first day of this now three-day dry spell, I took a Vicodin at 6 AM. Yeah, I know that means I'm not totally sober, blah, blah. Then I watched the French open. It felt weird to think of Roger Federerererer as the underdog because he used to be so annoyingly unstoppable. I wanted Djokovic to win (spelling?)

Then I went to bed and had a bunch of fucked up dreams. No monsters. Just this computer that kept flashing back on my life. Oh yeah, I do remember the eight grade. That's right, I was lonely.  I do remember high school. I thought I was fat then too. Fuck, thanks narcotics. You don't see that anti-drug ad. The one where you take something and realize you've never liked yourself and the drugs don't change anything.

Then the bathroom fixtures started moving around. I went into the bathroom and the sink was gone. And my dead cat (not a corpse in the dream) had moved it, but he put it back. I went back into the bathroom and the mirror was gone. Then the mirror was by my bed, and that made me want to jerk off (which I know is not the term for it when a lady does it,) but I lost interest.

I finally got out of bed at 3 pm. I walked downtown (seattle) and bought Keith Richard's book. I was pissed because I thought I was going to get a 30 percent discount, and I only got a 20 percent discount.  Fuck you, Borders... please don't leave me.

Then I watched The Hangover 2 and ate... you guessed it, a mother fucking sandwich. Bam!

It was terrible. Il Fornaio. Fuck you. Turkey, that made me burp some type of fish oil. I didn't tip the guy behind the counter, which is probably why he rubbed his ball-pussy all over the bread and wrapped it back up in cellophane before serving it to me.

I went home and stayed awake until 6 AM. I watched five episodes of Glee. I'm now sort of addicted. I should say, I hate musical theater. It makes me crazy for the same reason I hate it when sitcom characters hold up their hands to tell secrets. You can't just walk down the hall singing, or suddenly be outside of someone's window watching them sleep, when you were just in the classroom singing. Also I hate that girls mouth when she sings. It's too round and too open, and I want to choke her.

They have a dorky character who is also in a wheelchair, but somehow he gets to have sex in high school. What the fuck? I was only a little chubby in high school, and no one fucked me.


What was the point? 
Hangover 2: bad.
Il Fornaio: overpriced, rude and bad.
Vicodin: bad.
Booze: I miss you
Glee: A lie... please don't leave me