Yesterday was my 27th birthday. Here's what I got: a card from my father, a letter from my sister, a VS catalogue addressed to the former resident, an update package from my PPO, and an MCI bill.
Well, that's what I got in the mail, anyway. I celebrated by going to Kroger to send Western Union someone and came away with a surprisingly non-bulimic collection of groceries. Well, maybe bulimic lite. Toilet cleaner, icecream, discounted "Halloween" themed dishrags. You can believe whatever you wish of your fellow grocers, or you can choose to be non -judgemental. I, for one, only take interest in the women (like me) who sit with the icecream door open so long it fogs the entire length of the freezer and has a case of diet soda in her cart. As for the guy in front of me in checkout with nary but 10 lbs of margarine and a bushel of cucumbers, I don't really care.
Ativan & Cranberry Juice 11.02.02
I hope 27 won't suck. Odd years are usually better. 25 was okay. 23 I was at least sane. 21 was the best birthday and probably the best year of my life. 19 I followed the Grateful Dead and went to Rainbow Gatherings. Now, looking back it seems I got built up by my birthdays and seem to expect something fabulous to happen each year. At the least, for the ratio of fabulous to atrocious to be high.
Maybe I can hold on to that. Maybe I can make it happen.
I've met the man of my dreams in a bar again. The fact that I have inadvertently over the course of the past 2 years taken 3 men home from this bar and done (un)speakable things with them does not necessarily discount the viability of my prophecy.
It would be wrong to say that I met him tonight, though. I've met him *before*. I've told him he looks like Greg Proops (sp) before. But tonight was the night I found out that he prefers to be called by his full given name rather than the nick everyone refers to him by, tonight was the night we compared psychiatric histories and trends in personal musical tastes.
When I told him yesterday was my birthday and how old I was, he kept repeating "what a baby". And that he thought I was older. "By what I say or by how I look?" I asked, holding my breath. Nobody past the age of 21 wants to look older. He said it was the things that came out my mouth that made him think me older.
I could tell he was smashed and asked if we could play the "sodium pentathol" game where it's like I give you the truth serum and you are unable to lie, but the best questions I could come up with were: 1) Are you a cat or a dog person. 2)Where do you live? 3)Is it nice? The last two were in relation to the fact that he holds a position at the university that requires the same level of education I do. I guess it was a sneaky was of trying to figure out whether he was as broke as I am. Considering that he bought my drinks all night and they let him run a tab should have born this out as as unlikely.
He took my last questions a little differently. Which was unfair, considering I was meant to be the administrator of the truth serum. He asked a question back: "It's nearby here, only a few blocks. Do you want to come home with me?"
No, I do not want to come home with you. Tonight.
You already have a piece of paper in your pocket with the artist and album I am going to put on tape to bring you next week. With an IOU to bring me some sort of tape. You already know my psychiatric history.
I took 20mg of valium before I went there because there would have been no other way I could have. O had intended to go to Shabbat first but it starts at 6, which about exactly when I finished my run. It weighed heavy in my mind: "hmmmm organized spirituality or forced socilalization?" Which one might last longer? At which would I more easliy evade 6000 years worth of "have a second-helping" Jewish grandma genes? At any rate, I was certianly not going to walk into Shabbat late again, let alone in stinky running clothes.
In sum, today: I woke up too late. I paid bills and rent. I tried to read, but I still can't. I went on campus with a Luna bar, making sure a number of people saw me eating it. I received a birthday card from my mother who keeps forgetting that I need a mommy at this point more than I need a friend, and a book from my sister. I wonder if I will be able to read it. Ha. I also got another bill. And I rallied the masses around me, unbeknowest to them, that this Effexor work, because I cannot fucking live like this anymore. And now I'm going to take a very long, 22mg lorazepam nap.
There is nothing more pointless, as a graduate student, than facing a weekend being unable to focus, concentrate, read. My back is shot from sitting on this shitty folding tailgate chair tapping away at a laptop balanced on plastic stack-em drawers. Nothing has happened on any of the 4 bulletin boards I regularly inhabit of which I am not aware, mo message sits in my hotmail, yahoo, or uni accounts long unopened and/or undeleted. All I want is to sleep for 8 hours, wake up and take the next new titration of Effexor (still Zoloft-tinged) and eat another handful of pills, sleep until Sunday, and wake up okay. And read, and read, and read. . .
Well, that's what I got in the mail, anyway. I celebrated by going to Kroger to send Western Union someone and came away with a surprisingly non-bulimic collection of groceries. Well, maybe bulimic lite. Toilet cleaner, icecream, discounted "Halloween" themed dishrags. You can believe whatever you wish of your fellow grocers, or you can choose to be non -judgemental. I, for one, only take interest in the women (like me) who sit with the icecream door open so long it fogs the entire length of the freezer and has a case of diet soda in her cart. As for the guy in front of me in checkout with nary but 10 lbs of margarine and a bushel of cucumbers, I don't really care.
I hope 27 won't suck. Odd years are usually better. 25 was okay. 23 I was at least sane. 21 was the best birthday and probably the best year of my life. 19 I followed the Grateful Dead and went to Rainbow Gatherings. Now, looking back it seems I got built up by my birthdays and seem to expect something fabulous to happen each year. At the least, for the ratio of fabulous to atrocious to be high.
Maybe I can hold on to that. Maybe I can make it happen.
I've met the man of my dreams in a bar again. The fact that I have inadvertently over the course of the past 2 years taken 3 men home from this bar and done (un)speakable things with them does not necessarily discount the viability of my prophecy.
It would be wrong to say that I met him tonight, though. I've met him *before*. I've told him he looks like Greg Proops (sp) before. But tonight was the night I found out that he prefers to be called by his full given name rather than the nick everyone refers to him by, tonight was the night we compared psychiatric histories and trends in personal musical tastes.
When I told him yesterday was my birthday and how old I was, he kept repeating "what a baby". And that he thought I was older. "By what I say or by how I look?" I asked, holding my breath. Nobody past the age of 21 wants to look older. He said it was the things that came out my mouth that made him think me older.
I could tell he was smashed and asked if we could play the "sodium pentathol" game where it's like I give you the truth serum and you are unable to lie, but the best questions I could come up with were: 1) Are you a cat or a dog person. 2)Where do you live? 3)Is it nice? The last two were in relation to the fact that he holds a position at the university that requires the same level of education I do. I guess it was a sneaky was of trying to figure out whether he was as broke as I am. Considering that he bought my drinks all night and they let him run a tab should have born this out as as unlikely.
He took my last questions a little differently. Which was unfair, considering I was meant to be the administrator of the truth serum. He asked a question back: "It's nearby here, only a few blocks. Do you want to come home with me?"
No, I do not want to come home with you. Tonight.
You already have a piece of paper in your pocket with the artist and album I am going to put on tape to bring you next week. With an IOU to bring me some sort of tape. You already know my psychiatric history.
I took 20mg of valium before I went there because there would have been no other way I could have. O had intended to go to Shabbat first but it starts at 6, which about exactly when I finished my run. It weighed heavy in my mind: "hmmmm organized spirituality or forced socilalization?" Which one might last longer? At which would I more easliy evade 6000 years worth of "have a second-helping" Jewish grandma genes? At any rate, I was certianly not going to walk into Shabbat late again, let alone in stinky running clothes.
In sum, today: I woke up too late. I paid bills and rent. I tried to read, but I still can't. I went on campus with a Luna bar, making sure a number of people saw me eating it. I received a birthday card from my mother who keeps forgetting that I need a mommy at this point more than I need a friend, and a book from my sister. I wonder if I will be able to read it. Ha. I also got another bill. And I rallied the masses around me, unbeknowest to them, that this Effexor work, because I cannot fucking live like this anymore. And now I'm going to take a very long, 22mg lorazepam nap.
There is nothing more pointless, as a graduate student, than facing a weekend being unable to focus, concentrate, read. My back is shot from sitting on this shitty folding tailgate chair tapping away at a laptop balanced on plastic stack-em drawers. Nothing has happened on any of the 4 bulletin boards I regularly inhabit of which I am not aware, mo message sits in my hotmail, yahoo, or uni accounts long unopened and/or undeleted. All I want is to sleep for 8 hours, wake up and take the next new titration of Effexor (still Zoloft-tinged) and eat another handful of pills, sleep until Sunday, and wake up okay. And read, and read, and read. . .
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