The Games Sick People Play, Seagulls, Other Women’s Woos, and Farticus

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.

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