cancer is not a metaphor.

while i listened to my play get read aloud i took notes to keep busy,

to give my fidget hands something to do.

i ended up writing this:

• title: "kiss me at all the red lights." or "today i think i'll be emily dickinson."
• is the makeshift bed in the opening description?
• print five copies and highlight.
• should i feel this nervous? listening to my words?
• "i'm a loner, you're not": that line might suck.
• i want to VOMIT.
• "but that would be even better" should be better even.
• charlie's exit should be bicycle.
• shit, over time. shit.
• cut some narration.

the play was surprisingly well received.

which is the least i could ask for, considering i nearly melted while listening to it.

that is, i soaked half my homemade blouse clean through with sweat.

i have chosen neither of the two title options from the first bullet point.

tomorrow,

which is really today,

the play will be read to all who want to hear it

between 1 p.m. and 2:30 p.m. at the harold washington library.

i would really love it if you came.

this afternoon i journeyed to the nearly uncharted land of retail. and decided to fall in love with some $230 (reduced from $700!) prada heels. i can't have them because they are expensive. because they are new. because they are (new) suede. because they are wildly impractical.

and beautiful.

i cannot remember the last time i bought new clothing.

i think it was april when i bought a new brassiere at sears because thrift store underwear is just not something i want to do yet.

though, in the interest of full disclosure, i have bought new fabric, which i then sew into new clothing.

i. want. them. i. want. to. leave. now.

now, how did i forget that theatres are dark on mondays?

i don't like my forgetful moments.

i'm just like my dad in that i like to beat myself up.

and someday i'll get cancer.

i'm just like my dad, sometimes.

it's nice of him (not my father) to tell me what i want to hear, even when i can't return the favor.

the good-byes really suck. his good-byes really suck.

call me old-fashioned, but i like to end my phone conversations with "good-bye."

and if i don't get one, then i just keep talking and talking and occasionally i stumble upon a good line and - hey! hello? aw, shit, i thought you were still there, i wanted you to hear that.

i should stick around. fine. "for a little bit."

"hey, i'm gonna get going."

"okay."

i don't like to make scenes, and i don't regard his impending departure as a big deal, but i thought he did, so the response was a bit lackluster.

i'll see you in a week. (a week! i get a whole week to not worry about letting him down or breaking his heart! yesss!)

"where are you going?"

"are you leaving?"

yeah.

"what! why?"

i would rather be anywhere, but here. i would rather be alone. i would rather be at the hospital. i would rather be sobbing into my shirtsleeve about my future and about the book i just finished.

"i've just got a lot of shit going on," i said, waving my arms and fingers around my head to illustrate the motions that my brain was going through.

the bike path felt incredibly unsafe in the dark.

i have said that i hate the bike path.

if i was alone on it, riding in the dark with the lake gently undulating to the east of me, that would have been lovely.

but instead, my mind got spooked at my own huge shadow, regarding it as a separate rider, one altogether too close to me and moving too fast.

my late dinner was under heated but still tasted oh-so-good. going brain dead in front of the television sprawled along the couch with the little (though newly growth-spurted) brother and the cats was oh-so-good, too.

i made some good decisions today.

why does it seem that this blog has rapidly devolved into a wannabe fashion blog?