(this is annie)

here's where the story ends

What a week. I don't know where all the time went. It feels as though I've been floating through the days.

Last Tuesday (it feels so long ago) I drove out to the suburbs in Jaime's car. My grandfather Opa had been moved from the hospital to a nursing home. I met my uncle at the home, and Opa was lying in bed. His IVs, tubes, and other foreign plastic intrusions were gone, so I was thankful for that. He was gasping for air, gulping it down, gesturing in the air at something that wasn't there. He reached for my hand and gently squeezed the tears out of me. I kissed his forehead, rubbed his earlobes, stroked his shoulders, told him how much I love him. And when I told him that, he gasped for air quickly, attempting and failing to speak. He then held my hand and pulled it over his heart. I left the nursing home at 4:30; he died at 5:30.

cheesecake skirt.

Re: spinsterhood. Embrace of spinsterhood is likely result of laziness, but also of overwhelming fear of emotional intensity and closeness with anybody new, unknown, other.

Maysan is halfway across the world, and I miss her. It's strange to think that we were working at UBO together a year ago, taking long lunch hour jaunts to the Lower East Side, planning how to quit our jobs at the same time. I miss my friends from New York, but it feels better to live here. My grandfather is ill and dying. He could go tomorrow, or next week, or next month--we just don't know--and in a sad way, it's a comfort to be only a half-hour drive from him. It's hard to go to work in the morning, knowing that he could be breathing his last breath while I write about home organizing ideas. If I could, I'd spend all day with him, every day, as insurance that when he finally goes, he'll be with someone who loves him.

bony clavicle

It has been brought to my attention that I am slightly too picky when it comes to dating. "Just because he wears black socks with white sneakers, Annie..." and so on. I see this not as pickiness, but as selectivity. Plus, I am just too lazy (emotionally, physically) to date. Evan says that Fred made me jaded, but I disagree. The way I look at it, if you're always dating someone, you lose a sense of who you are. Your identity becomes wrapped up in the relationship. So that is why the men in my life are two cats. Spinsterhood, I embrace thee.

During the last two weeks, I have been cursing my breasts just for existing, which is ridiculous. After years of longing for some sort of frontal curvature, they're finally here. And what do I do? Daydream about them leaving. Normally I like The Twins just fine, but the hot weather has encouraged me to wear tank tops (and sunscreen, always sunscreen). Tank tops are great because they keep the ol' bo-day cool, but all of these asshole men on the way to work stare at my chest. I hate it.

As Jaime is ready to go now, I must do the same; he's giving me a ride home from work. I cried at work today, which is something I feel like doing nine days out of ten anyway.

Lately I have been trying to live more, write here less--all in the hopes of experience. I find that the less time I spend online, the more I'm able to meet oddball characters, learn how to make things with me' own two hands, that sort of thing. And I am writing, not yet on paper, but in my head, which is an important first step. This step can drag on too long, and if I don't fix my computer soon, it will stop being a step and start being a dead end.

One of the many problems about modern technology is that it has allowed writers and artists to become slightly lazy, or at least picky. My father was a commercial artist, which is what graphic designers were called before computers came around. He can still design an ad with Letraset and rulers and graph paper; today, most designers would be in trouble without computers. Writers began writing with their hands, then with typewriters, and now with computers. Unfortunately, I have conditioned myself to write best when in bed with a laptop. And my rusty old laptop, in a seeming fit of prudence, insists on running only in Safe Mode. The iBook sounds better each day...

I decided to buy a Vespa scooter, and I had done all the research about it, and was ready to buy a scooter on three different occasions. But then I realized that I didn't know how to ride a scooter, and if you don't know how to do that, the fine state of Illinois won't give you a motorcycle license. So although I desperately want the baby blue Primavera 125, I must wait until next summer. But then, watch out.

The funny thing is, I fully expect a Vespa to solve all the problems in my life. Obviously, the scooter really would liberate me from the horrible CTA. And the cost of maintenance is relatively low. Yet I am placing unrealistic expectations on the little Vespa. In my little mind, Vespy (that is what the scooter would be named) will make everything a-ok. Vespy will make me the most popular lady in the city. Vespy will straighten my teeth. Vespy will lift my spirits, clean the house, and kickstart my heart. Vive Vespy!

A side note: Dissatisfied with my current job, I have decided to become a professional Croissant Quality Assurance Tester in Paris.


say hello

    it's anniet at gmail.


© 2009 avt

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