 Beautiful Things |
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I spent last week recovering from the reunion and the session. That is really all I remember. I went to therapy. I bought Harry Potter. On Friday night, a group of friends went out for Mexican food. I drank 1 beer and 1 raspberry margarita and ate a salad burrito. I read HP on the couch for hours on end. On Saturday, I went to Target. I mowed the lawn. I did laundry. I went to see my grandmother, who has a large bruise on her eye where apparently she punched herself while trying to pull out her oxygen tubes. I went to see my mother, who finally came home. We went out for Thai food. She tried to tell us about her trip, but I think it's kind of like coming back from camp or a European vacation. There is so much you want to explain. You want to convey, "This is what happened. This is how I changed. Look, I am different. Can you tell?" and I know she felt like she couldn't possibly tell us all that she felt about what she experienced. And that's a little lonely. But shit! I'm just glad she's back. She's really kind of an amazing person. On Sunday, I went to mass, where my dad played Jesus in a scene from Quo Vadis. I'm telling you, this priest is kind of bizarre. This is all fascinating. I finished HP last night. It was good. I am sad. I hate finishing books that I like. J. gave me the new Annie Lennox CD. I really don't even know how many times we've sung "Why" to each other in bars or other drunken occasions. It's kind of embarrassing, really. I love the new CD. It is gorgeous. Lush and rich and gorgeous and lovely and sad. On Sunday, I shopped. I bought a denim skirt for $6.97 and new jeans and red shorts. I bought size six jeans. What? I cannot think of size six without thinking of the Wakefield twins. It's too bad that I don't have a peaches and cream complexion, flaxen hair, eyes as blue as the Pacific Ocean, and drive a red Fiat spider. Tonight I went to eat my mom's homemade pizza. Actual homemade dough. I visited for a little while with my parents. I told my mom about the four-page (legal sized) treatise I typed with important information about my animals if anything should ever happen to me. "The rest of my stuff," I said, adjusting the vibrating pillow under my neck as I sprawled on the couch, "Just do whatever you want with it." "What about your journals?" my mom asked. I sighed. "You can read them. I don't care. I have nothing to hide." And I mean, seriously. Who cares, once you're dead? I would have been on my honeymoon right now. of reasons why I still believe they do exist (a thousand beautiful things) 
© Copyright 2003 elb |
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