I've had a migraine since yesterday.
I've felt an intense and painful pressure, threatening to push my eyes out of my head, for the past 36 hours.
I wish my eyes would fall out. I wish an ice-pick wielding burglar would invade my apartment and jam him weapon into my temple. I wish my used the toilet instead of a litter box. I wish I could trust myself to drive to the drugstore for some liver destroying pain killers.
It's not that I want to die, not exactly, but feeling nothing seems like a better alternative to what I'm feeling now.
I asked my boyfriend to bash my face in. He said no.
Just when you think you know a person.
Wednesday, May 18, 2016
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
Countdown to 102
So I suck at the blogging thing.
But I can keep trying, right? Maybe when I'm 80 years old and bored of solitaire and my grandkids no longer visit me I will finally come around to writing a blog post everyday. For now, cheers, to the next 59 years of trying and practicing.
For some reason, 59 years doesn't sound like a very long time. I think the increasing average lifespan has thrown my idea of "old" askew. You're 60 and retired? What are you going to do for the next 20 years? Someone dies at 70 and "they lived a long and fulfilled life", yet the same sentence is used in the obituary of a 90-year-old? Where is the significance of those twenty years? When a 20-year-old passes, did they not live a long and fulfilled life?
I had a neighbor, Joe, who was old. His skin sagged under his arms where his muscles used to swell. A crinkled tattoo, something from his Navy days, was always on display thanks to his daily attire of wife-beater tanks and sweatpants. He was a cranky fellow, but commanded a beautiful garden. He would tattle on us if we even stared at his flowers too long, telling our father "those kids are aiming to pick my flowers and ruin them". I never understood how someone so nasty could grow something so dainty, so precious.
Joe was old, and Joe had a mother. I never saw her. Her arm flaps never wagged us away from the house and I never heard her voice try to convince my father we kids were up to no good. She existed within the garden-guarded house. She existed in a single room in that house. She existed solely in a bed in a single room in that house. She existed in a bed and as a result of McDonald's french fries. That's all she would eat, every single day.
I didn't know any of this, though. Not until she died and she happened to die at the long-overdue age of 102. She was older than the Crayola factory. I distinctly remember this because the day she died was the day the Crayola factory celebrated its 100th birthday... oh, the things we celebrate in elementary school. I also distinctly remember Joe sitting on his porch with my father, drinking vodka, telling him all about the final years of his mother. The countdown to 102.
My boyfriend's grandmother just celebrated her 90th birthday. She'll catch up to Joe's mom in a mere 12 years. Is 12 years enough time to become fulfilled? Or should she be fulfilled already? At what age should you become fulfilled, or at what check-point in your life? Is everyone fulfilled, simply by dying? What do you do in the countdown to 102?
Eat McDonald's french fries, of course.
But I can keep trying, right? Maybe when I'm 80 years old and bored of solitaire and my grandkids no longer visit me I will finally come around to writing a blog post everyday. For now, cheers, to the next 59 years of trying and practicing.
For some reason, 59 years doesn't sound like a very long time. I think the increasing average lifespan has thrown my idea of "old" askew. You're 60 and retired? What are you going to do for the next 20 years? Someone dies at 70 and "they lived a long and fulfilled life", yet the same sentence is used in the obituary of a 90-year-old? Where is the significance of those twenty years? When a 20-year-old passes, did they not live a long and fulfilled life?
I had a neighbor, Joe, who was old. His skin sagged under his arms where his muscles used to swell. A crinkled tattoo, something from his Navy days, was always on display thanks to his daily attire of wife-beater tanks and sweatpants. He was a cranky fellow, but commanded a beautiful garden. He would tattle on us if we even stared at his flowers too long, telling our father "those kids are aiming to pick my flowers and ruin them". I never understood how someone so nasty could grow something so dainty, so precious.
Joe was old, and Joe had a mother. I never saw her. Her arm flaps never wagged us away from the house and I never heard her voice try to convince my father we kids were up to no good. She existed within the garden-guarded house. She existed in a single room in that house. She existed solely in a bed in a single room in that house. She existed in a bed and as a result of McDonald's french fries. That's all she would eat, every single day.
I didn't know any of this, though. Not until she died and she happened to die at the long-overdue age of 102. She was older than the Crayola factory. I distinctly remember this because the day she died was the day the Crayola factory celebrated its 100th birthday... oh, the things we celebrate in elementary school. I also distinctly remember Joe sitting on his porch with my father, drinking vodka, telling him all about the final years of his mother. The countdown to 102.
My boyfriend's grandmother just celebrated her 90th birthday. She'll catch up to Joe's mom in a mere 12 years. Is 12 years enough time to become fulfilled? Or should she be fulfilled already? At what age should you become fulfilled, or at what check-point in your life? Is everyone fulfilled, simply by dying? What do you do in the countdown to 102?
Eat McDonald's french fries, of course.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)