i hung out with my wonderful favorite friend darcy and her g/f melissa. darcy is my oldest living friend that i can think of. not old as in old, but old as in ever since high school. we all went out at really cheap chinese and were served by a goofy waiter who looks too much like chris farley and played stereolab really loud. too loud. and we talked about going east and doing the ten year reunion together. at first we groaned and laughed but then we put our little pieces of gossip together about all the people we remember and it turns out that all the guys are either gay or used car salesmen, and all the gals are mothers married to truckdrivers or to used car salesmen. in light of this new insight, we are considering going back, if only for the opportunity to wear tuxes together, get sauced, laugh at all those wieners, and visit delisioso. i also admit that i want to see liz s. one more time before i die.
my heart is heavy. my heart is a submarine, rising to the surface to check its position, and then sinking back down again. my heart is skipping across the water like a flat stone. i kick my heart out ahead of myself like an abused soda can. my heart is hidden in a tin box with old photographs, half a wooden frog, and a wedding ring. my heart is a burrito too cold now to eat -- it lies on my chest as i sleep and plops down into the space between my bed and the wall when i awake. my heart wants to travel to india. my heart sinks. my heart murmurs.
there aren't enough bumper-car rides in this world.
i married a counselor who kept me sane. i married a painter who made me beautiful. i married a writer who made a muse of me. but i simply must find myself a good anesthesiologist.