mnvnjnsn's Diary

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2003-04-21

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I'm so laz... oh, never mind.

My mind is very much in neutral today. I haven’t had the energy to do much, and I blame that on everyone around me. No, seriously, everyone around me has had this cold that starts with a headache and soreness and a cough, then moves to the throat and hangs out there for as long as it needs to. And I’m just feeling the first tinglings of head pain. Ugh. I knew I was going to get it.

I suppose there were things I could have done to avoid catching this cold: I could have overdone the Vitamin C and the Zinc; I could have slept on the futon upstairs and not tried to kiss my poor, infected Trevor Dunnigan as much as I did; I could have worn one of those fashionable face masks. I didn’t though, because I’m lazy.

There’s a lot in my life that could probably be better if only I weren’t so lazy. Diabetes can be managed well if one tests one’s blood vigorously and one balances ones meals. My anxiety and insomnia and depression may just be a food allergy. If I were to actually plan out my meals—and then actually eat them—who knows what I could accomplish? I mean, maybe my head’s been in a fog all day because all I’ve eaten today was a baggie of Froot Loops and and an Orange Dream Machine. Maybe I’m always tired because I feel full after eating a half a cup of soup and a tomato. Maybe I shouldn’t rely on Ben & Jerry to keep my blood sugar up.

In other news, Trevor Dunnigan and I went to the Woodburn Tulip Festival this weekend. It was a standard Oregon festival, with the Elephant Ears and the Kettle Korn and the hoards of enormous families. The drive down there was harder than it should have been, as the Woodburn exit is also the exit for a mall of outlet stores, and the stopped traffic in the right lane had started long before we even knew our exit was coming up. So, of course, we passed it. 8 miles later, we were able to turn around at the next exit.

So that’s why Eminem is always so pissed.

Anyway, we passed through some lovely farm land on the way to the festival, and as we crossed over the big swathe of mud charmingly called “Pudding River,” I realized what I really want out of life: A ranch just off the Pudding River (so my address would be “Fusty Mews at Pudding River”) with some corgis, an emu, an alpaca and some cats, and a nice garden that is mostly taken care of by other people. I’d like an accountant who will take care of the money, and an assistant who will help with the Christmas cards, and Trevor Dunnigan. Wouldn’t that be nice? Then I could see me eating well and not needing all the drugs. Is that really too much to ask? Sugar daddies, please feel free to contact me.

But that, of course, will never happen. The cats wouldn’t let an emu near the house. Trevor Dunnigan said he’d visit Fusty Mews, maybe. Damnit, why can’t I have nice things? Well, one thing I have done towards my Pudding River dream is to buy a book on gardening. Not that it will keep me from killing all the tulips the previous tenants planted, or will help me to know the difference between the roses and the ragweed, but it’s a nice book, anyway.

They say I’m a pessimist (and by “they,” I mean “I”), and I am. To me, pessimists are the only ones who are ever pleasantly surprised.

4:10 p.m. - 2003-04-21

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