It was a hell of a week. My mom went into the hospital on Monday. She’s out now and down south collecting shells and roaming the seaside elfin forest with my pop and friends. Hospitals are awful places—even the very nice ones. They smell weird and there are loads of beeping alarms and weary faces. The first day I went over to visit, I walked in and my parents were laughing. My ma was wondering if she should have just laid there looking still with her eyes closed. Because that would have somehow been funny. Humor is essential during tough times—sick humor may be better yet.
I got bored today and so I decided to read through an old diary of mine from 1997-98. I thought it’d be a regular laugh riot—and it actually was very terrible and depressing! I think I read something about how loads of people go through some severe depression around their late teens/early twenties. Yikes. Not only was I super bummed, but I was also pretty lame. “I bought a pair of khaki stretch pants and three pairs of socks. I just put on a pair even though I’m going to bed soon.” Wow. That is an awesome display of both criminal fashion sense and too much time on my hands. I was incredibly self-critical. I actually have lists of things I disliked about myself. Or things I wanted to improve. Or just general complaints. And I really talk a lot about the boyfriend I had at the time and noted everything we ever did. Our weekly break-ups. Every feeling, every comment. It’s sort of sickening. Then I found a gem:
“I had a crazy dream that I had a crazy garden with huge old spiders that took care of me and when I was mad at someone, the spiders would kill them. Yay spiders! So, some security guard at Stonestown [mall] accused me of something I didn’t do and so I got him fired and he got placed in my secret garden along with all of his security guard buddies and the spiders (which were huge and hairy and brown) ate them. I hate those god damned security guards.”
Okay, WTF. Seriously. I am glad I am less hateful and strange as I was then. And talk about a Freudian field day.
And on that topic…my friend told me that she and another friend got waxed at the same time then, decided to compare. Brazilian v. Playboy. I’m not sure what the final verdict was. All I know is that, while not a prude, I have never thought about comparing my bits with others. It isn’t like challenging a friend to a foot race or seeing who can spit the farthest. I guess the benefit would be…well, I guess you would absolutely never have to feel shy around that person again. Maybe you’d even feel inspired to do things differently. This story was told to me right before we walked into a bar featuring a band called Farticus.
The seagull photo has caused quite a controversy (Note: if you are confused, please see previous seagull-related posts). The attorney brought it with him to court after I had signed it, “Our seagull, Cap’n Jack.” This excited the inmate to no end. He was tickled pink. He even used it to flag down the judge. He actually shouted, “Judge! My piss bag’s full!” The judge asked what he had in his hand and this prompted a five-minute long discussion to determine whether said photo could be considered contraband. You know, we might be sending hidden escape messages to a stiff-legged paraplegic. My friend Kristin thinks I may be unknowingly working for some strange vaudeville act. I’m beginning to think she may just be right.
Pac-Man makes me nervous. My dad loaded it onto his computer and was playing it for like an hour yesterday. He was sweating. There is something inherently freaky about being chased—doesn’t matter if it’s ghosties or some dirty little kid playing tag. When I was a kid I would hide in very lame places every day at 5:30 when I heard my pop make his way up the steps. He would always pretend I was a very good hider, but most of the time I’d be either under the table or standing super still in a corner. Not so bright. Even now, I often have the urge to run away when I hear approaching footsteps. I must have been traumatized.
Many fears and gnarly issues often stem from trauma. Childhood trauma. Of course, for some, trauma is an every day occurrence. My friend recently decided to be a dirty little freak and lock herself in handcuffs around a beam on her wrought-iron bed. Of course the time came to unlock the cuffs, and of course the key was nowhere to be found. Her man-friend decided he’d be really gentlemanly and help her rip one hand free before going to work. She was still half-shackled, so she really had to wrack her brain for a great solution. “That’s when it dawned on me to go to the fire station.” I am so sure. She rang the doorbell and waited as a small butch lesbian answered the door. Right as my friend (who now had a scrape on one hand from the yanking) was asking if this whole thing could be handled discreetly, a big burly sexy fire fighter came to the door, saw the handcuffs and called the whole firehouse over for a look. I guess they bolt-cut that baby off and she was set for her walk of shame past the now-open firehouse door.
Adult trauma can be just as bad, if not worse than playground teasing for having peed your pants again. Several reliable sources tell me so. Recently, a friend of mine went on the worst date I think you could dream up. I mean wow. A friend of hers told her about www.crazyblinddate.com. Do not, I mean really don’t go there and torture yourself. Unless you want a horrible adventure with some jerk and maybe you like psychological / spiritual pain and heartache. So, you sign up and they hook you up with some unknown person who you meet at some previously agreed-upon location. They send some blurred out picture of this date of yours via email. So my friend shows up to meet this self-proclaimed EMO guy he is visibly disappointed. He may have even let out a sigh. He was wearing a Baby Gap-sized sweatshirt for Christ’s sake and he was the one who was disappointed.
Then the awkward silence. Then the awkward conversation about nothing. About how he doesn’t work and he has no free time because he works. What? He cancelled his meal order, slammed down his credit card and said he thought she might have had some redeeming qualities, but alas…no. The kicker though—and seriously, I cringe when I think about it—is that after this terrible date, he tells her, “I have some super-duper Band-Aids for you.” Confused, she took them. “They should help cover your wounded heart.” He ran away down the street and she looked down and realized they were just ordinary Band-Aids. Jeeez. Like, I want to give him an award. That was by far the cruelest thing I’ve ever heard. And bizarre. Who are these people? If you want to read the detailed story: www.cupcakeg.blogspot.com.
This is for the birds…I saw a woman catch a sickly old pigeon the other day. I felt like a weirdo watching her stalk her prey from inside a local copy shop. This was before I realized everyone in the shop was watching her. “She works next door at the bank!” one of the guys shouted, “I think she’s a security guard.” Why, why, why. It’s a pigeon. And it’s a sick one to boot.
Back at a Southern California State Penitentiary, the attorney I work for was busy visiting one of our dearest clients—that ALLEGED cop-killing paraplegic I’ve mentioned in blogs-past. Well, the attorney told him all about the sea gull we’d named after him and he got all excited and amused and started screaming and banging the table with his fists. I have now been commissioned to take a picture of our pathetic, single-footed mascot so the prisoner can see his namesake.