 JournalCon, Funerals, & Nightmares |
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With JournalCon looming less than a week away, I'm sitting here thinking about it. I have no idea what to expect, having never been to JournalCon. Here's what to expect from me! I recently chopped four inches off of my hair so it's shorter than I'm used to, but it's still brown and straight and past my shoulders. I'm 5'6" and my ass is round and large. My face is breaking out right now due to PMS. I'll be arriving on a plane with Melissa. We'll probably be getting there before you since we seem to be getting there damn early. My roommates will be three of the following, but I'm not sure which ones yet: Amy, Elizabeth, Erin, Kate, Kymm, Melissa, mo pie, all of whom I love more than my looseleaf and luggage combined. (Much to my great disappointment, Athena, who was set to room with us, is no longer able to attend. This means we must plan a jaunt to San Diego one of these days and I am not kidding! She will be sorely missed.) Speaking of luggage, I have no idea what I'm packing. Cute and comfortable clothes are key, but I will honestly probably not pack until the morning that I leave. I am always a morning of packer. It's not the best way, but it's how I am. I can never sleep the night before a trip anyway, so I always just get up obscenely early and pack then. If you are already at the hotel when Melissa and I arrive, come and talk to us! Or we will come and talk to you. I am excited. I am also weird, in that depending on the situation and my mood and the quantity of cheap beer I have consumed, I am alternately gregarious and outgoing as all hell or shy and wallflowery and slouchy in manner of one who wishes she would disappear. I anticipate that I will be somewhere in between those versions of me this weekend. It's hard to say. Luckily, I've already met some attendees and I plan to maul others with kisses because I feel like I've met them in my heart, so I'm not going into it with too much social trepidation. I saw three movies this weekend. What's not to like about Bend It Like Beckham? Totally fun, cute, and entertaining. It took me a while to figure out that the coach was the guy who hooked up with Christian Bale in Velvet Goldmine. Inspired by that revelation, I also rented Laurel Canyon, which didn't really do it for me in spite of the fact that I like most of the actors in it a lot. Heaven, which I rented because I will pay to watch Cate Blanchett watch paint dry, was strange and surreal and sad, and startling in a lot of ways. She is more beautiful bald than most women with lovely coiffed tresses. Last night was a bad night. It was series of nightmares. I would have one, wake up, turn on the television (news to me: Sports Night is on Comedy Central at 3 a.m.) or open Three Junes, pass out, and then have another one. This went on in a series of four acts: S. gets married (not to me ... to some random girl from our high school named Carolyn whom we hardly even knew), his wife confronts me after their wedding, he confronts me after their wedding, I go to their very messy house and meet their three kids. Four acts. Of doom. It was all very horrible. I even busted out the rosary at one point and started Hail Marying myself into some realm of sanity. I really was in some kind of strange hell dimension. I don't know where it all came from, and I certainly don't know why my subconscious felt the need to constantly revisit and flagellate my psyche even after I would wake up by starting with the next scene unfolding as soon as I would fall back asleep. I'm not sure that's ever happened to me, that long, strange continuation of a dream in separate segments. I know they were separate dreams, because I definitely woke up between each one. I would get up and go to the bathroom, or let the dogs out, or watch an entire episode of Sports Night (the one when Dana removes her panties at dinner), or say an entire decade of the rosary. And then BOOM. There I was again, back in that zone of despair. At a funeral mass this morning, I prayed during the intentions to never have another night like that again. I gripped the cute guy's hand next to me during the Our Father and prayed for my hand not to be sweaty. I answered, "No, it's a family ring," when someone spotted my diamond (ON MY RIGHT HAND, MIND YOU -- what was she thinking?) and asked me excitedly if I am engaged. I ate pecan pie and finger sandwiches in the parish hall. I kissed my father three times because I saw the children at the funeral looking so sad about losing their father. I thanked him eight times for hanging my new house numbers yesterday. I feel like I have some distance now, this afternoon, between me and those dreams, but every night when I close my eyes, I immediately recall what I dreamt about the night before. I don't want to face any of that again. I honestly have not felt such utter misery in a long time. It was a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad night. I think I would rather stay up all night licking individual cat hairs from my baseboards than have those kinds of dreams. The other night, I dreamt that I was having a love affair with the Republican governor's candidate, and even that was less scary than the ones I had last night. Tonight I will go to yoga in my new yoga pants and sports bra and hopefully focusing on the ajna chakra will soothe my apparently troubled fucking soul.
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